Stay Tuned
by cakeisnotpie
Summary: Kingpin needs the Avengers and Spiderman out of the way for a few days, so he hires a trickster to distract them. Can they figure out what's going on as they change channels between alternative universes in time to foil Kingpin's plan? This is the 8th story in the Hulkeye & Stony series featuring Clint Barton, Bruce Banner, Steve Rogers, and Tony Stark.
1. Epilogue: The Trickster

Wilson Fiske stormed into his plush Manhattan office, his large bulk making the glasses on the bar vibrate in time to his angry stomps. His white suit was pristine except for the growing circles under his arms, the sweat that rolled down his bald head reflecting his frustration. The massive desk was littered with papers and files mingled with empty white take-out cartons and coffee cups; he swept his beefy hands over it, casting a rain of sheets across the floor.

"Goddamn it all to hell," his voice rolled out, loud and raspy.

"Whoa, whoa, big guy!" the leather chair spun around, and the man inside waved his lollipop in the Kingpin's direction. "Chill out. Stress is bad for your heart … assuming you have one."

He wore jeans and a plaid shirt, his brown hair slicked back, a wide smile on his face. The green canvas jacket covered his slim figure, a study in contrasts with the large-sized Fiske. Dusty boots propped up on the desk as he slid down in the chair.

"Who the hell are you?" Fiske demanded. "And why shouldn't I kill you right now?" He produced a .22 caliber handgun from his pocket and aimed at the intruder.

"Well, now, you can shoot me if you want, but then you won't have an answer to your problem will you, Jabba?" He grinned. "Seems you need a distraction, and I'm just the person to do it. For the right price, of course."

Fiske didn't lower the weapon. "I'll ask one more time. Who are you?"

"Sort of have a lot of names, Sidney, but you can call me Gabe." He dropped his feet, spun around again, and suddenly was standing right next to Fiske. With a snap of his fingers, he made the gun disappear, a twinkie appearing in its place. "Now, shall we get down to brass tacks? You need to keep a certain group of superheroes busy for … what? … seven days? … so you can bring that brand new, shiny satellite online, the one that you're going to use for your dastardly plan." He raised his eyebrows and chuckled. "Not an original idea, mind you – Dr. Evil and all – but hey, an oldie-but-goodie just might work. This time. Maybe."

"How the hell do you know …." Fiske began, but Gabe snapped his fingers again, and the twinkie shoved itself in Fiske's mouth, effectively silencing him.

"Hey, enjoy it. Might be the last one on Earth now, for all I know." Gabe moved with nervous energy, pacing around the room, picking up M&Ms from a bowl on the desk and tossing them into his mouth. "I can guarantee that those chuckleheads won't know their ass from a hole in a ground for the time you need; you'll not hear a peep from the henhouse. Easy peasy."

Fiske spit the cake out into the trash can and looked skeptically at the man. "How much?" His son had told him he knew the right guy for this job, and this was exactly the type of person Richard would send. The boy was a major screw-up. But if this guy could do what he said, Fiske could see his plan to fruition, earning him back the respect he'd lost after the Las Vegas fiasco.

"Depends. Do you want them out of the way or out of the way? 'Cause those are different sliding scales, DeNiro." Hands never stilled, rolling the lollipop stick back and forth as he talked.

"Just out of the way. I want them to watch me win. Especially that damn spider punk." Fiske's smile was feral at the thought of the red-suited, smart-mouthed menace getting his comeuppance.

"Okay, let's see, one elaborate trap for how many? Six primaries, plus the hangers-ons and the elusive webslinger. I'll give you the Dr. Evil discount, and we're having a special on containment and storage this week …" a calculator appeared in his hand. He added some numbers and passed it over to Fiske who saw the total and nodded eagerly at what he thought of as money well spent. "Good. Now, just one more thing. A little contract I need you to sign …"

…..

Clint tried to focus on the vibration of the muscles that held the string pulled back, the touch of the fletching brushing along his cheek, the tension of the wood. With a sigh, he let the arrow fly and immediately notched another even before the first one hit the target square in the center. But his head kept replaying the argument, fixating on the details.

"_I don't care about the damn chair, okay?" Clint said. _

"_Then what is it? What's wrong?" Bruce was doing a heroic job of maintaining his temper, clenching his fists and breathing evenly. _

It wasn't like they never had disagreements – any couple did, and hell, Steve and Tony had slamming out of sliding doors down to an art form – but they'd both said things in the heat of the moment that he knew they didn't mean. A stupid chair, that was all it was; they had agreed to take their time furnishing the new space – the one Tony designed for them while they were in the South Seas. They'd come back to find a whole floor reconfigured for the three of them, the Hulk's room with a big balcony and floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors (extra tall ceilings to accommodate his size), two more bedrooms, a big living space with the giant TV, Hulk's bacon painting, a few more original artworks that Clint vaguely remembered one of them mentioning they liked, and a kitchen all their own. It was so Tony to rush ahead without asking, not to mention the way Tony dealt with stress was to build things; neither of them could work up more than a basic annoyance at him for assuming they were just going to move in together. They'd both been thinking it before the trauma of cloned Bruce's death, so that wasn't the issue.

"_It's not the money. I don't give a shit what Tony wants to spend it on," Clint argued. "I don't know what it is, okay?"_

"_Clint," Bruce sighed, his own frustration evident. "Trust me I do know. You're overthinking things again." They'd had this conversation before; Clint was convinced he was going to mess this thing up. _

"_Right. That's what I do. Overthink and not talk." He paced, finding it impossible to sit still. "And you calmly handle it and tell me not to worry." _

The arrow flew true and he lined up another shot, and then another, the mindless repetition soothing away some of the anger he was feeling. And that was the problem, really. He shouldn't be angry; the last five months had been good ones, nothing major happening – no one trying to kidnap them, take over the world, no aliens popping up. The whole Avengers Initiative thing, Tony incorporating them and separating them from SHIELD, was going well, and Hill had gone to bat for Clint, getting him reinstated on a probationary status as a SHIELD liaison with the Avengers. He and Bruce had been going for close to a year now – a record in the Barton book of dating – and they'd handled some pretty terrible things without breaking. So why was he so on edge?

"_Look, maybe you should see if Natasha wants to spar or hit the range or something, get some of that energy out," Bruce suggested. "I've got some simulations running in the lab I can take care of."_

"_Fine. Go. I can deal on my own," Clint had snapped._

His arms were aching but he ignored them, unaware of how long he'd been at the range; arrows and targets kept appearing, so he just kept shooting.

"_You want me to go?" Bruce asked, and Clint was surprised by how much that question hurt. "I will if you do. I mean, it's okay. We agreed. You can go when you want."_

"_No. I don't mean that. I mean … oh, hell, Bruce I just need some time. Shoot or smash my fist into something. It's not you. It's me." He groaned at that. "Damn that's something I never thought I'd be saying. Look, just give me a bit to work this out, okay?"_

_Bruce's brow unfurled in relief. "Take all the time you need. I'm not good at this either, so I'll need some sort of sign when you want to talk or not talk or whatever."_

"You going to keep going until your arms freeze up?" Tony said from the doorway. Clint shook himself free from his thoughts and lowered his arms, the pain suddenly registering; rolling his shoulders and neck, he stretched his complaining muscles. "Want to go a few rounds or are you going to do the Steve thing and just keep destroying equipment until you fall over?"

"Bruce sent you to check on me?" Clint shook his arms to loosen them as he walked over to the cabinet to unstring his bow and start cleaning his equipment. "Tony Stark, relationship guru. Who'd have thought?"

"Nah, Bruce didn't mention anything. I've got Jarvis set to notify me when any of you are destroying yourselves in the practice rooms," Tony smirked as he leaned against the wall. "But now that you mention it …"

"I am not going to talk to you about my love life, Tony." Clint shook his head at the ludicrous thought of Tony giving him advice. Okay, that was a little hypocritical since Clint had pretty much helped push Tony and Steve together; he was still a little amazed it had worked and that the two hadn't killed each other yet.

"That's okay; I can do it for you." Tony looked him up and down. "You're waiting on the other shoe to drop, for everything to go wrong. You know you're going to fuck it up, so you're thinking maybe you'll just get it over with and do it now rather than later, rip the band aid off. Poke at it, snipe, get angry and defensive until he can't stand it anymore. Not like you're got a thought out plan or anything, just reacting in a time-honored tradition of screwing up your life to avoid the good stuff that you don't think you deserve."

"Are we talking about me or you?" Clint asked, voice heavy with irony; Tony shrugged, giving him the point.

"Let's see … I'm sleeping with Mr. All-American, the poster boy for perfection, and you're banging a big green ball of rage plus the genius doc. We blow the curve for coloring outside the lines. And neither of us is going to win any prizes for the most well-adjusted," Tony grinned. "So I think we can safely say that we might have similar baggage."

Clint thought about it as he was stowing his bow back into storage. Sabotaging himself sounded like something he would do. "It's just … well, it feels like this isn't my life. That someone's going to jump out and tell me I'm on candid camera or something, you know?"

"Every damn day, I check the closet first. There was that one time in Paris when there was film crew hiding in the walk-in shower …" Tony grinned. "Never took you for an existentialist, though. More a YOLO type."

"God, Tony, hipster much?" Clint laughed knowing that was what Tony wanted, to razz him out of his bad mood. "I'm actually more of the Dread Pirate Roberts' school: life is pain … anyone who tells you differently is selling something."

"Ah, but I am not left handed!" Tony waved his hand in Clint's direction. "Okay, if we're going to get any more metrosexual and talk about feeeeeeeelings, I need a drink. Something really old and really expensive. You in?"

"As long as you're buying, I'll drink your liquor anytime." Clint followed as Tony turned to leave.

"So, the chair? Top of the line, ergo dynamic, can hold the Hulk's weight. Thinking about buying the company …." Tony kept talking as they walked down the hallway to the elevator.

…

The bed sagged as Bruce sat down on the edge and then slid in, pulling the covers up after he settled on his back. Clint waited until Bruce stopped moving then rolled over, snuggling up against his side, resting his head on Bruce's shoulder. Sliding an arm under Clint, Bruce laid his hand on Clint's back and pulled him closer.

"I'm an ass." Clint kissed the line of Bruce's neck.

"Yeah, but you are a mighty fine ass," Bruce murmured back. "And I happen to be an ass man, so there's that." He paused. "Thought you'd still be drinking with Tony." Both Tony and Clint had drunk texted him some pretty hilarious photos of the two of them along with some NSFW conversations about Steve and Bruce. Bruce had gotten virtually no work done thanks to the running commentary and what it did to his libido.

"Jarvis didn't tell you?" Clint shifted, raised up on an elbow. "He's worse than Edward Cullen. Always thought watching someone sleep was all creepy-like stalkery stuff. Then I moved into a tower with an AI that sees all, knows all." He let his hand trail down Bruce's chest, playing with the dark hair that covered his muscles.

"_Twilight_ references? You're really drunk, aren't you?" Bruce had to smile; drunk Clint was usually pretty damn interested in sex – and also much less likely to be worried about tomorrow or the next day.

"Yep," he dropped his head and licked at one of Bruce's nipples. "Went through at least a couple thousand dollars' worth of scotch. Beat Tony at _Halo_. Twice. Talked trash. Ate atomic spicy hot wings. Feel better."

Bruce tangled his hands in Clint's hair as that wonderful agile mouth followed down to his belly button. "Good, that's … ahhhh … good," he sighed as Clint's hand slid between the covers and circled his stirring cock, fingertips teasing and stroking, bringing it to attention.

"But then, you saw the pictures, right? Tony was having a field day sending them to you and Steve. We'd still be going strong if Cap hadn't shown up and carried Tony out of the room." Lips descended lower, tongue swept up and over the sensitive head; he paused and looked at Bruce, eyes full of mischief. "Literally. Threw the man over his shoulder and stalked off sporting a massive boner." Tongue swirled again and Bruce's breath hitched at the stab of pleasure. "I have pictures. We own Tony now."

Bruce wanted to reply to that, the use of "we" that tumbled out of Clint's mouth, the way he just assumed they'd be together in whatever plan he had, but Clint opened him lips and took Bruce all the way in, sucking hard as he slipped up then slid back down, and coherent thoughts fled right out of his brain. He could only ride the motion as Clint worked him to the edge until Bruce had to thrust upward into Clint's mouth and spilled down his throat with a groan, just the sounds of their breathing in the night-darkened room.

While Bruce's shudders still shook him, Clint crawled up his body and fell on top of Bruce, his hard cock alongside Bruce's thigh. "Keep the chair. Tony says the Big Guy will like it," Clint said after another minute.

"I already sent it back, but we could order another one." Bruce's hands traced down the curve of Clint's back, over the muscles of his ass, tightening as he rubbed his thigh into Clint's cock. Lifting his head, he caught Clint's mouth in a needy kiss.

"We okay?" It was almost a whisper against Bruce's lips, but he knew what Clint needed to hear. Rolling them over, he trapped Clint beneath him, knee parting Clint's thighs and pressing into him so he could grind against Bruce's skin.

"We're good." He kissed Clint again. "Great. Give me a minute here, and it will be even better than great." Reaching over, he opened the drawer by the bed. "If I remember there were some texts about what you wanted me to do to you."

Clint's groan was heartfelt and sensual. "God, yes. Miracle metabolisms. Got to love 'em." He wiggled for a better position to relieve the ache. "I love you, you know."

Bruce smiled down at the amazing man who had somehow had the bad taste to fall for him. "I love you, too, Clint." And he set about showing Clint just how much.

…

_*need u. help us. B at Tower at 2 a.m. Stark*_

Peter Parker checked the screen of his phone one more time. Tony Stark. Us. The Avengers. Asking him for help. He could hardly keep himself from dancing right there on the rooftop where he was waiting until the meeting time; he couldn't keep away, arriving far too early, so here he was watching the darkened windows of Avengers Tower, trying not to be an overly eager beaver who showed up right on time. That would make him a geek, and he didn't want to make a bad first impression. Hell, he hadn't even thought that Stark and the others had noticed him, despite his best efforts to get into Stark's labs or help them out in fights. Nope, the only attention he'd earned for the bruises and pain was that idiot Jamison who screamed banner headlines about him being a criminal. But that all was changing. The Avengers needed him. He checked the time – 2:04 a.m. – and spun a web to swing over to the balcony, landing with hardly a tremor. Finally, he was going to run with the big dogs. If he didn't throw up first.

His spider sense tingled and he whirled to check behind just as a wave of distorted energy passed through him. No time to think, he slid to the ground, fast asleep, as the wave continued through specific parts of the Tower without even Jarvis noticing, leaving behind sleeping figures entwined in beds or sitting on a couch or even slumped in the labs.


	2. School's Out for Summer

"I am so ready for this semester to be over," Carol said as she sat her beer down on the table and pulled up another chair. "Finally got those grades in, and now I can ignore the grumbling student emails for a few days and work on my thesis."

"Right," Hank said, working on his third already. "Like you're not going to be checking out the guys tonight. Tony does know people come here because he buys them food, right?"

"Don't think he cares why they come, just that he can have his pick of the litter," Carol laughed. "Although, I hear he's got his eye on someone new. He won't shut up about how hot the guy is. You heard him, Bruce, didn't you? 'Immensely fuckable,' I think he said."

Bruce shrugged, only half-listening, his mind still in the lab. Between teaching two sections of physics, his own graduate classes, and all the extra tutoring he picked up to make money, he never had enough time to work on his dissertation; he looked forward to breaks not only to catch up, but also for the quiet the summer would bring. He just couldn't make Tony understand that he was perfectly happy alone in the lab; he still didn't understand why the son of one of the wealthiest university donors had decided to befriend the biggest geek on campus, but from their very first class, when Bruce was an early admission 16-year-old freshman and Tony a year younger, Tony had made it his mission to drag Bruce, kicking and screaming into some sort of social life. Now that they were graduate students and teaching assistants, Tony was a 23-year-old big man on campus and Bruce … well, Bruce was just an older science geek.

"Bruce? You there?" Hank waved his hand in front of Bruce's face. "How many have you had?"

"Just thinking about the new idea Tony has about how to separate the …" Bruce began.

"No, no, no." Carol shook her head. "No science talk; we are all going to have some fun and then get drunk or laid. Preferably all three."

The door to the hole-in-the-wall pizza place opened and Tony strolled in, wearing jeans and a Pac-man t-shirt, flip-flops and sunglasses. That was part of the draw of Tony Stark; he might have a shitload of money, live in a great apartment and drive a really nice car, but he didn't care about any of that. He was happier in his workshop or the university lab space, working for hours on end on some new invention. Even as Tony moved across the room, greeting familiar faces, he made a beeline for the corner where the others sat, the place they always hung out since Bruce had moved into his two room shithole apartment in a dilapidated house just down the street, right next to the condemned structure that housed a hippie commune. Tony still tried to bully Bruce into moving in with him, but Bruce stuck to his guns and stayed in a place could afford on his own. Really, living 24-7 with Tony would probably test every last nerve Bruce had, and he'd be a raving maniac in no time at all. Distance could be a good thing. Besides, he could walk to campus and the best bars, and he still had money to buy his own beer. Most of it anyway, when Tony wasn't buying pitchers and rounds for everyone.

"Party time, kiddos! Done with work, so let's get to it," Tony declared; his boisterous voice evidence that he'd already indulged in a few pre-happy hour drinks. Bruce just hoped he'd gotten his grades turned in; Dean Hill already had Tony on her shit list after that one incident with colored soap and the President's anniversary party, but if Tony missed one more deadline, she might be able to use that to get rid of him. Honestly, Tony was brilliant, but he could be so stupid sometimes.

Peter jumped over the back of the booth and reached a hand for one of the icy bottles on the table; Carol smacked it away. "Hey! I'm a college student. I can party if I want to," he protested.

"You are 16-years-old. Technically, you're a high school student; just because NYU has a special program for eggheads like you doesn't mean you get special treatment," Carol reached over and ruffled his hair like a little kid. "Besides, you know Dean Hill is dying for a reason to shut down the program. Underage drinking would do it. Even a picture of you with a bottle in your hand would be enough. We're pushing it by letting you in here."

"It's a restaurant. People bring their kids here. They even have a kid's menu!" And Peter had actually ordered off that menu a few times. He liked the mac & cheese.

More people came through the door, and Tony's eyes lit up as he surveyed the crowd. "Hey! He came!"

"Your new boy toy?" Carol asked. "Which one? Can't wait to see this paragon of manhood."

"There, in the red t-shirt." Tony nodded. "And he's not my boy toy. He was in my Stats 104 this semester; I was very good and didn't even flirt with him. I don't want to have to do that damn sexual harassment DVD again. I could repeat it in my sleep."

Bruce turned with the others and saw the handsome young man, long bangs hanging over his forehead, a mischievous smile on his face; his libido immediately sat up and took notice. Biceps strained the cotton short sleeves, veins apparent on top of the sinewy muscle, strong fingers curling around his belt loops. Black jeans hugged the curve of his ass, powerful thighs covered by the dark denim in a way that highlighted his physique. Most amazing of all were his eyes – blue and grey and green, changing as he passed from the sunlight outside into the dim main room, shifting with the turn of his head. He saw Tony's wave and walked towards them … no, Bruce thought, stalked or prowled was a better word, and, damn, when did he get so poetic?

"Clint! Glad you made it. Come meet the crew." Tony linked his hand through Clint's elbow and pulled him close. A redhead detached herself from the rest of the crowd and followed Clint; she was small and compact, curves in all the right places in her jeans and tank with an open button up over it, her blue eyes taking stock of everyone in a single glance.

"Gang, meet Clint Barton, future Olympian and … what's your major again?" Tony tilted his head, waiting for an answer.

"Sports Management," he said, and Bruce couldn't take his eyes off the way Clint's lips quirked up at the ends in amusement at Tony's larger-than-life vibrancy.

"Yeah, right, something like that. Anyway, this is Carol Danvers, biology, Hank Pym, engineering, and Bruce Banner, nuclear physics." Tony pointed out each in turn.

"Um, hey? What about me?" Peter stood and offered his hand to Clint. "Peter Parker, science whiz."

"What? Are you like twelve?" Clint asked, surprised.

"Nah, Peter's part of the Science Academy program. And he's a royal pain in the ass," Tony supplied.

"Oh, right," Clint said when the redhead punched him none to gently in the arm. "This is Natasha, my roommate. She's a dance major, exchange student from Russia."

"Hello, there, Tasha …" Tony started, charm oozing out.

"No," Natasha said.

"Playing hard to get will get you …." Tony kept going.

"No," Natasha repeated in a deadly cold voice. Bruce didn't know if she was just razzing Tony or if the sneer on her face was real, but Clint liked her– and Bruce was suddenly struck by the fact that Clint lived with this woman, so he could very well be straight as an arrow. A shiver ran through him, the lights seemed brighter, tinged on the edges with a rainbow effect. No, he thought, not now.

"Um, okay," Tony took a step away from both Natasha and Clint.

"Good. Now, you can buy me a beer." She nodded, a regal incline of her head. Peter reached to grab one of the bottles on the table, but stopped at Carol's glare; Hank motioned to the waitress.

"I invited a few other friends who are hanging around for the holidays, if that's okay," Clint asked Tony. "They should be by later."

"The more the merrier!" Tony declared. "We'll start with the best pizza in the area. Making up grades makes me hungry."

Bruce stayed silent, watching as Tony oversaw pulling up another table so Clint and Natasha could drag some chairs over, including a few extra for the late arrivals. With Tony orchestrating things, Bruce found himself at the end of the booth with Clint perched in a chair next to him; the man didn't sit, he balanced on one folded leg, bouncing sometimes with excess energy. Somehow, pizza seemed to appear when Tony walked in and soon the Formica tops were littered with silver circular pans, slices disappearing as they bitched and complained about everything from students to professors to the lack of parking on campus, all of which they always talked about but never quite solved. Clint grabbed a piece, finishing a large slice of garbage pizza in a few bites, licking the grease off of the tips before he snagged another one. The way his tongue flicked out to catch the olives that threatened to fall off the edge made Bruce have to hide his growing erection under the table; it had been a very long time since Bruce had been this attracted to anyone, and he didn't even know anything about the guy.

"So, Olympics?" He was surprised his voice worked and hoped Clint would blame the big mouthful of magherita pizza for the huskiness. "You, uh, what sport?"

"Archery. Hope to make next year's US team. In fact, I want to talk to you about that." Clint sat what was left of his third piece down just as the server removed one empty pan and placed a piping hot taco pizza in front of him. Clint snagged a slice before the bevy of hands could descend, looking askance at Bruce. Holding his plate out, he let Clint slide the last piece onto it. "Because of my scholarship, I can only take one semester off for training, so I need to summer classes to keep on schedule. The only lab science I can work into my schedule is Dr. Greene's Physics for Poets; Tony says you might be able to tutor me? I mean, I'm not a bad student or anything, but it's a compressed class, and I have to keep at 3.0 because of financial aid issues."

He threw a glance over at Tony who was keeping up his usual constant witty banter, he and Carol currently involved in an in depth argument about the exact size of the Nostromo from the movie _Alien_. Something to do with the density of liquid hydrogen. When Tony saw Bruce's look, he winked back. Damn it. Tony wasn't interested in Clint. He was playing matchmaker. Again. Bruce was tempted to give Tony the evil eye, but, well, Clint was hot, so maybe, just maybe, Tony could live to be an ass another day.

"I can do that." There, that was good. He managed to get the four words out without tripping over his tongue.

"Good. You got a phone?" Clint reached out a hand, and it took Bruce a few second to process the request, too caught up in thinking about the strong fingers for it to register.

"Oh, yeah," he reached his cell over and Clint quickly added his number.

"Send me a text and we can set a time. My days are pretty full, but I'll make time." As he handed it back, their fingers brushed, and Bruce felt the shifting under his skin, a tingle that jolted through him.

"Sure," Bruce almost stuttered, barely stopping himself from falling into those blue-grey eyes and getting lost. "Um, I'll be around."

"Holy hell, who is that? I am in love." Tony's voice carried above the din, and all eyes turned to the doorway. Two blondes came in, tall and imposing, both with the physique of athletes; one had long hair pulled back in a ponytail, his features Nordic and imposing. He was big, intimidating, but he had a broad smile that lit up his face. The other could have been the model for the All-American boy, clean cut, perfect hair, tight CCNY shirt that highlighted his washboard abs. Bruce had to laugh at Tony's face, the gob smacked look that said just as much as the way Stark shifted in his chair; if nothing else, Bruce enjoyed these rare moments with Tony was caught off-guard. It was a pleasant surprise when the two divinely handsome men made their way over to their table.

"Clint!" the Viking called. American boy hung back, more shy than his companion. "I see you've started the party without us. We shall order some ale and some food."

"Ah, Thor, this is Tony Stark, the man I told you about. Tony, Thor Odinson. And that's Steve Rogers behind him," Clint provided. Everyone took the chance to introduce themselves as more pizza arrived at the table along with some drinks for the newcomers. The volume rose even louder, but Bruce noticed Tony falling uncharacteristically silent, his face focused and concentrating; from his place on the other side of the table, hemmed in by Hank on one side and Clint, whose chair had been pushed around so close that his knee was occasionally grazing Bruce's when he'd reach for his beer, Bruce couldn't talk to Tony, just worry about not only Stark's reaction to the newbies, but his as well.

It happened to him sometimes, this strange feeling of another being inside his own skin; he'd been to therapists and doctors his whole life after the first seizures and been give any number of diagnoses, none of which truly explained why he lost control of his body sometimes, like pure rage and anger was taking over, shoving him deep inside where he could only helplessly watch. When his father had hit his mother, Bruce, hiding in the closet, had lost consciousness for a whole twenty minutes, waking to find himself sweating on the floor. There were times when his skin changed colors, flooded with pigments that gave a false green tint, and other times he was aware as his body convulsed and shook. These fits, as he called them, were why he was studying so hard, trying to find answers for what was happening to him, wading into nuclear physics for explanations. He rarely told anyone– he'd once confided in Tony after they'd drunk too many tequila shots, and Tony had been the only person to take it in stride – but he felt like he had a monster inside of him. That wasn't something a serious science student would even think, much less believe. Yet right now, smelling Clint's aftershave, feeling the brush of his leg, sneaking glances of his profile, he could feel the 'other' inside of him struggling to push out, strong emotions rolling up, confusing Bruce. Possession – a fierce sense of 'mine' – pure lust, and something softer, a needy side of himself he'd never felt before: they were all distracting him, making his head pound behind his eyes. He gripped the table when Clint rose and headed for the bathroom, the urge to follow overwhelming him – images flashed in his head, him on his knees, Clint pressed against the wall, a heavy cock in his mouth – and he pushed them back by sheer force of will.

"You okay?" Carol asked, leaning over closer. "You're looking a little green around the edges." She knew the cover story, that it was a type of epilepsy, knew the warning signs to look for.

"Hey, let me out and let's get some fresh air, we can step out the back. I need to pee anyway," Hank offered, giving Bruce a cover to retreat. All of his friends were great about helping. He nodded and slid out of the booth; Tony gave him the look, and Bruce responded with a negative shake of his head, short hand for all is okay. Heading back the hallway, he didn't stop in the bathroom, exiting out the back door into a parking lot; Hank peeled off, promising to be right out. Today was warm in the city, and Bruce leaned up against the whitewashed brick wall, hidden by the dumpster, a favorite spot for smokers going by the amount of butts on the ground; he closed his eyes, trying to calm down, took some deep breaths, focused on his heart rate, and counted slowly. The door opened and he expected Hank, but Clint came out followed by an older man, maybe in his mid-thirties; they were arguing as the door swung shut.

"I've already done it. It's on your desk. We agreed I could have some time to myself so I don't burn out." He stopped and turned to face the other man.

"I know, and I wish I could give it to you, but Dean Hill is riding my ass about this. Budget cuts and Title XIV and some other shit the bean counters have decided makes sense only to them." The man put his hand on Clint's arm, holding it just above his wrist. "I'll give you what I can, but you'll have to take more than just the two classes, still keep the 3.0, and we'll have to find a way to cover the travel expenses. Don't worry. We'll figure it out."

Worry creased Clint's brow, and he leaned in to keep the conversation quiet. "Phil, they can't do this. There were promises made. Damn it all, I'm so close." His voice was breaking, and he squeezed his eyes shut in frustration.

"Don't panic. I've got some strings to tug yet," Phil raised his other hand and gently pulled Clint into a hug. "You'll get your shot. And you'll make it like always."

Something boiled up inside of Bruce, a jealousy that he shouldn't be feeling; the hug was clearly platonic, one man comforting the other, but the thing inside of him didn't care. His skin rippled and changed to startling hue of green, hands gripped his thighs, his brain spun, and he eased down the wall until he could hang his head between his knees, fighting for calm. What he wanted was to rip the man away from Clint. Clear as day, he heard _Cupid Mine_ in his head, and he tried to shake himself out of the downward spiral.

"Bruce? You okay?" He could see Clint's feet, hear him crouch down in front of him. A calloused hand stroked the side of his face, and everywhere it touched, warmth spread out, forcing the seizure back; Bruce lifted his head and turned his cheek into Clint's palm. A centered calm stilled in the pit of his stomach, and the anger faded quickly away.

Blue-grey eyes looked at him with concern. "Sorry, um, I'm okay, just need …" Bruce tried to explain, but he often had trouble talking right after a fit.

"No problem. Kid at the orphanage had seizures sometimes. Just got to be steady and even until it passes."

Bruce would give anything if Clint would bring those lips closer, kiss him until it was better, but he let his head fall back against the wall instead, adding distance between them. "Yeah. Give me a few minutes."

"Bruce?" Hank asked as he came around the bin. "Did you?"

"He's getting better," Clint said, staying right there with him. "We'll get you back inside, okay?"

…

"Let me guess. You haven't even made a move yet, have you?" Tony raised his empty glass for the bartender who immediately brought a refill. "Bruce Banner. You are never going to get laid if you don't take some action here. I virtually threw a great looking guy in your lap, you are meeting him twice a week and, damn it, I loaned you that porno about the tutor in the library, didn't I? What is the hold up?"

"Well, for one thing, we've only met twice. Damn school is trying to cancel his funding; he has to ride the subway twenty minutes one way just to get time on a range – pay for it himself, mind you – and now they're saying they won't cover any of his travel expenses to meets and the trials. It's a crock of shit if you ask me." Bruce was working on a dull roar of anger ever since Clint had to cancel their session earlier this afternoon. He'd gotten stuck in a subway slow down, missed his scheduled time and had to wait there for the next available opening. "Dean Hill has some bug up her butt about Clint, I think. It's like she's doing everything possible to distract him."

"If money's the problem, I can solve that. Howard loves to give money to sports – I think he's in negotiations again to buy a NFL team, but he's got pet projects at any number of schools. Pisses him off my only exercise is energetic sex. He'll be tickled pink when I tell him you brought this up. He likes you." Tony grinned. "Leave it to me. There will be a dedicated fund for archery before next week."

"Tony, you know you can't just throw money at problems. Sure, that might help Clint now, but Dean Hill will just be even angrier," Bruce chided. "And then she'll take it out on us … and Clint … even more."

"Hmmmm, true. Okay. Anonymous donor then. That will work."

Bruce knew he'd lost an argument, and he knew not to mention things like Clint's money woes to Tony without expecting the man to fly into action. That was, after all, how Tony showed people he cared. "Anyway," Bruce said, changing the subject, "I don't see you talking to Steve either."

"Goddamn boy scout! He blushes Bruce … blushes! … and I think he's a virgin." Tony shook his head in pretend disgust but the smirk on his face gave him away. "Never thought naiveté would be so damn hot. He's an art major … go figure that … and a member of the decathlon team. Man can do everything. I just have to have a plan; can't go throwing myself at this one."

"Un-huh," Bruce nodded sagely. "Do you even know if he likes guys? I mean, Thor's dating that lovely physics undergrad Jane Foster so he's straight, but Steve? No clue." He had managed to find out that Clint had dated a guy late last year – six months ago at least – so that answered one question. Bruce still didn't have an inkling if Clint was attracted to him.

"Hasn't dated anyone since he transferred, nada, bubksis. Boy scout!" Tony shook his head.

Bruce's cell phone buzzed and he saw a message from Clint. _Just back, too late? Thor & Steve here. Lots of noise. Need to study. Library?_

"That's from Clint," Tony crowed. "You should see your face. He wants to come over and play spin the bottle? Or Jell-O shots?"

"Wants to meet in the library. Thor & Steve are at his place, and he can't study." Bruce saw the calculation slip into Tony's eyes; he'd bet that Tony knew where Clint lived and was thinking of excuses to drop by even as he spoke.

"Tell him your place is better. Quieter. He's always hungry. Order Thai or something." Tony wiggled his eyebrows at Bruce. "If he says yes, he's interested. Trust me."

"Tony," Bruce warned, but he already knew he was going to do it. Tony was right. He needed to know.

"Can't hurt. Casual, easy, and if he says library, then you'll know."

Bruce's fingers shook a little. _Not too late. Library okay, but thinking of Thai food. Maybe my place instead?_ Tony snatched the phone out of his hand and gave the message his blessing. With a deep breath, Bruce hit send.

"Oh, god, oh, god, Tony. I shouldn't have done that. What if he says …" the phone vibrated.

_Perfect. Address?_

"He said yes." Tony was practically glowing. "Well? Answer him."

Bruce keyed in his address and asked _How spicy?_

The reply came quickly. _Be there in 15._ _Very hot._

Tony slapped him on the back. "Congratulations, Bruce. You've got yourself a date!"

…

Bruce's apartment was nothing to write home about; his door was the original front door of the Victorian home, and the entryway had been walled off, so there was only the bathroom straight ahead and what used to be a sitting room to the left. The bathroom was a hastily thrown up drywall divider, and the first thing Bruce had done after moving in was reverse the direction of the door to swing outward so it didn't slam into the sink every time he tried to get in. The shower was just big enough for Bruce to stand it – he hit his elbows a lot on the Plexiglas sides – and he often banged his knees on the sink when he got up from the toilet. He'd found an old wooden table and parked it in front of the bay window filled with lovely leaded glass; a 1970s sofa complete with green and orange paisley flowers faced the fireplace (which, surprisingly was still in useable shape), and his double bed was pushed up against the far wall. One corner was hidden behind a sheet strung up on old wire for a closet, and a sink, microwave, one cabinet, and a fridge served as his kitchen. Books lined every available wall, milk crates with two by fours resting on top of them for shelves. The nicest thing in the whole room was his Stark tablet and router, a gift from Tony last year when Bruce got his master's degree and started his Ph.D. program. Knowing Clint was coming, Bruce cranked up the small window air conditioner, trying to get the room at least vaguely cool.

The first thing Bruce noticed when he opened the door was how tired Clint looked. Beyond their tutoring sessions, he'd seen Clint a few more evenings hanging out with the others, but now dark circles were prominent under his eyes glazed with fatigue, and his shoulders were slumped even more than necessary for the loaded backpack he carried. He wandered in, but his smile only half-way filled his eyes.

"Hey, thanks. I've got a lot to get done, and Thor's telling stories about childhood exploits at my place. I could use the quiet." Clint crossed through the doorway and dropped his pack on the floor by the couch. He glanced around. "Wish I had a place of my own. Nat's a good roommate, usually leaves me be, but too many others hang out, you know what I mean?"

"Tony's place is always crazy." The Thai food had already arrived, so Bruce took some plates out of the cabinet and put the food on the table, opening up the white cartons. "I took you literally and ordered some pretty spicy stuff. Red curry, spicy noodles, and some sweet basil vegs. Help yourself. There's beer in the fridge."

Clint filled his plate to heaping and put it down on the TV tray that served as an end table before he opened his pack and pulled out his textbooks. "Smells great. I missed lunch. Probably shouldn't eat this late, but I don't really care." There was an edge to his voice; he was still angry about what had happened earlier.

"You want to start in on the physics now or wait a bit? I've got some research reading to do, so it's up to you." Bruce settled on the opposite end of the couch after he grabbed them two beers, his tablet on his lap.

"Actually, physics isn't that bad. Did well on the first test. Greene found out about the archery and has been using that as examples. Makes it much easier to understand when I can think of trajectory and drag." Clint shoveled in a big bite, paused, his eyes watering, and drank a swig of beer. "God, that's good. Maybe it will keep me awake long enough to get through this homework. The literature class is killing me; so much reading, and I'm so tired that I doze off half the time. You don't know anything about poetry do you?"

"Just know what I like. I'm more of a science fiction person myself." Bruce did love to read, but he rarely had time for that anymore.

"Oh, me too. Love some Heinlein or Vonnegut if I can find the time." Clint dragged the heavy _Norton Anthology of English Literature_ Volume 1 out of his pack. "Going to start on this while I'm eating. Maybe I can stay focused."

For a bit, they ate in companionable silence as they read; when both plates were empty, Bruce absently got up and brought the rest of the containers over, sitting them on the floor, picking up chopsticks to finish off the sweet basil while Clint downed the rest of the red curry. They split the last of the spicy noodles, not even noticing that they seamlessly passed it back and forth like an old married couple. Bruce made it through three articles before he ran out of beer and had to get up again for another. Clint snorted softly and looked up.

"You know, it didn't occur to me that people back then thought like we do," he said, flipping the page. "Listen to this:

Gather ye, rosebuds while ye may

for time is still a flyin',

and this same flower that smiles today,

tomorrow will be dying.

Sounds fancy, but it's just a version of 'we're going to die, so let's have sex now'."

"Think I've heard that one. Knights or Cavaliers or something?" Bruce fished a couple more bottles out of the fridge and reached for the opener.

"Cavalier poets. Wrote during the English civil war. Oh, this is priceless:

Had we but world enough, and time,  
This coyness, lady, were no crime.  
We would sit down and think which way  
To walk, and pass our long love's day …

My vegetable love should grow  
Vaster than empires, and more slow.

Ha. He's a con artist this one." Clint stood up, stretched, and balanced the book on the back of the couch. "Vaster than empires … isn't there a story with that title?"

"Ursula K. LeGuin," Bruce leaned back against the sink. "It's coming back to me. Something about time?"

"'But at my back I always hear, Time's winged chariot hurrying near' … he's closing the deal. If we had all the time in world, I'd play your games, but we don't … 'the grave's a fine and private place, but none, I think there do embrace' … that's the money line. Have sex now before you die." Clint was laughing as he crossed the small space, put his hands on either side of Bruce and boxed him in. "Think that might work? Hey, we might die tomorrow, so…"

Bruce blinked and his throat stopped up as he tried to speak, Clint's body so near now that he could feel the heat coming of it in the warm evening. "Sure. Must work or it wouldn't still be around."

"True," Clint's voice was husky and Bruce was torn between staring into his eyes with their intent so clear or focusing on the lips that were coming to meet his own. "Carpe diem, right?"

The kiss was sweet with a spicy kick, just like the food they'd eaten, a hint of hops from the beer, a heady mixture that stirred Bruce's body and shut down his mind. There was nothing but lips, soft with so little pressure that Bruce might have imagined them, slowly wandering across his mouth, miniscule tastes of him from edge to edge. It was tender, almost like he was dreaming, and Bruce exhaled when Clint pulled back, his eyes drifting back open to stare into Clint's face.

"Leaning is whole bodies moving in like this," Clint's breath washed over Bruce's aching lips. "Leaning involves wanting... and accepting. Leaning..." and then he was kissing Bruce again, this time with parted lips, head tilting to the side; Bruce opened under the request and Clint's tongue swept in, intimate and invited. This kiss was hotter, elevating the temperature in the room, and Bruce's hands settled lightly on the waistband of Clint's jeans, fingertips tapping out his need on Clint's back. They stayed that way, exploring their mouths and lips, parting and turning and raising the stakes between them in slow increments.

Bruce's cell phone rang in his pocket; he groaned when Clint pulled away. "I don't have to answer that. Probably Tony wanting to know if I've made my move or not. He's an asshole sometimes."

Clint laughed, low and sexy, and Bruce bit his lower lip at the sound. "It's okay. I really do need to study. This can wait."

"Ummm … winged chariot? We're going to die tomorrow?" Bruce protested as Clint moved.

"Don't worry. I've got plans for you." Clint winked and settled back on the couch.

Bruce answered the phone. "You had better be dead or close to dying or I'll kill you myself."

"I figured it out! The coefficient in the second equation is off …"Tony started to explain and Bruce cut him off.

"How can it be off?" He was back at the couch in a blink, pulling it up on his tablet. "We've been over it so many times."

"Steve's art. He showed this sketch he drew of Clint shooting and …"

"Steve? You figured this out because of Steve?" Bruce shook his head in wonder. Clint looked askance and raised his eyebrows, so Bruce mouthed silently _Tony wants to get into Steve's pants_, and Clint dissolved into quiet laughter, his shoulders shaking. Despite Tony's long-winded rambling explanation, Bruce was watching Clint; finally, Clint pulled himself together and mouthed _Steve's got the hots for Tony but thinks he isn't interested_.

"Tony." Bruce voice was sharp to get through to Tony. "I'll work on it. Now go talk to Steve. He thinks you don't like him, and he's definitely gay." Bruce ended the call while Tony was still sputtering.

"Idiots," Clint said.

"Agreed." Bruce turned to his screen and Clint swung around, slipping his bare toes under Bruce's leg and propping his book on his thighs. In just a few seconds, Bruce was sucked down into the flow of numbers and formulas as he made the adjustments; he lost track of the time, always seeming to be just one more change away from figuring it all out. The room got quiet, and his eyes began to burn; a warm weight settled on his thighs, and he blinked a couple times before he laid his tablet on the tray table, took his glasses off and rubbed his temples. The clock on the mantle read 2:47 a.m. Clint was fast asleep, his head in Bruce's lap, curled on his side, physics book open on the floor with homework papers neatly stacked on top of it. Bruce stretched and shifted; Clint stirred.

"What time?" He focused on the clock; his voice was slurred with exhaustion . "Damn. I need to get back. Have to be up at 6:00 to get to the practice field. Only time Hill will let us have it."

"Stay." The word tumbled out of Bruce's mouth. "You'll get more sleep; it's closer from here. Unless you have to get your equipment?"

"Steve can bring it," he fumbled for his phone and managed to send a text. "God, I'm so sorry. Not exactly the seduction I had planned." Bruce helped him up and pushed him over to the bed; within seconds of hitting the mattress, Clint's eyes were already closing. Well, wouldn't be the first time Bruce had slept on the lumpy couch.

"Doc." The word stopped him; Bruce looked at Clint's outstretched arm, the open invitation. "Come on."

The thing inside of him rumbled, contentment mixed with want; he was crawling next to Clint before he even thought about, Clint rolling his body up alongside his, fitting like a missing piece of the puzzle that was Bruce Banner, clicking into place. Arms circled and drew him close; Bruce buried his nose in Clint's hair and felt a tension he didn't even know he was carrying melt away.

"Told you. We're okay," Clint murmured, dropping back into a deep sleep.

_Not okay,_ that voice inside Bruce said just as he drifted off. _This wrong_.


	3. Time Keeps on Slipping

_**Chapter 2: "Time Keeps on Slipping"**_

_**Still in Bruce's alternate college universe, the Trickster has to pull out all the stops to keep the Hulk from waking up.**_

…_**.**_

Bruce sat next to Tony on the metal bleachers as last semi-final group began. Tony had already started the partying, passing out water bottles liberally mixed with vodka and Sprite, everyone waiting now for the Thor's performance in the shot-put finals. Steve had already won first place in the long jump, and Clint had wiped the floor with his competitors earlier in the morning on the archery range. They'd come to cheer them on at the college regionals, and the weather hadn't cooperated; a summer storm front moved through, adding wind to the challenge, not that it seemed to matter to Clint. Steve and Clint had immediately headed for the snack bar after Steve was done, while Natasha was chatting up a handsome young man a few rows away.

Bruce's brain was foggy as he tried to focus in on where he was. "Tony."

Taking another swig, he looked over at Bruce. "Come on. This is a celebration! Our boys won!"

It was all so strange; Bruce could have sworn that he had just been sleeping, curled up with Clint on his bed after falling asleep on the couch. But it also seemed like that was months ago; memories spilled into his brain of classes and parties and long hours in the lab and kisses with Clint when he wasn't running from one competition to another, but they were jumbled and indistinct. The kiss in his apartment, the taste of the spices, the warmth of Clint's body – those were clear and sharp, but the rest weren't.

"Something's wrong, Tony." He tried to put it into words, but the idea that time was compressing was too strange to give voice to, even if it was to Tony.

"You feeling okay?" Tony was instantly concerned. "It's been a while time since you've had a seizure. Is it the heat?"

"No, it's not that. Just … well, tell me Tony, have you asked Steve out yet?" Bruce had no memory of that, and he was sure that Tony would have talked about it ad nauseum until everyone wanted to strangle him.

"No, I've been waiting …" Tony stopped, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I just want it to be the right time?"

"Seriously, Tony, when do you wait for anything? You know that's not like you." Bruce pushed his sweaty hair off of his forehead; the storm had left muggy humid air in its wake.

"Maybe I've changed?" Tony didn't sound completely convinced. "And since we're on the subject, I could ask when you plan on fucking Clint."

"We got hot dogs and pretzels, and Steve got nachos with extra jalapenos," Clint settled down next to Bruce and passed white butcher paper wrapped packages to everyone.

"The heat's the best part," Steve continued the argument as he sat down on the other side of Tony. "And mine is an all-beef polish sausage with onions."

"My body is a temple, come and worship," Clint teased, taking a big of bite of his chili dog. "You eat worse than Tony does."

"Hey, I resemble that remark. Alright, Steve, now we have to get back at him," Tony turned to Steve and they dropped their voices into a private conversation; Bruce hoped that Tony was finally going to do something about the pining rather than just plan retribution.

"So, what's the answer?" Clint leaned in close and asked.

"Answer?" For a second, Bruce was confused, and he wondered if Clint was feeling the oddness of the moment too.

"When are you going to fuck me?"

Bruce almost choked on his hot dog, and Clint's face split in a wide grin as he laughed. "Um, okay," Bruce managed to get out.

"I mean really, three months, long evenings studying? I've been sending the signals pretty clearly. You might take things slow, but I can't for the life of me figure out why I'm waiting." He finished off his first hot dog in one last bite.

"It's like we just jumped ahead in time," Bruce said. "Wasn't last night the first time you came over?"

"Time compression? Like in that really bad movie we watched where the person was flashing forward in time?" Leave it to Clint to immediately believe him. "So we should expect an invasion of really bad CGI aliens that look like emaciated dogs?"

"I honestly don't know," Bruce answered. "Everything between then and now is hazy, and I haven't had any fits at all, and that's weird. I should be having more of them since they're stressed triggered, according to my findings."

"You stressed out?" Clint opened a second wrapper. "What about?"

"Well, contrary to what Tony might have told you, I don't really date all much, so I'm not exactly what you'd call experienced at this."

"Wait, are you saying I'm your first, Doc?" Clint grinned. "Good. I like that idea."

The name didn't register, and then a wave of applause drowned their voices out as the round finished. Clint glanced to see the winner – Thor's competition – and it hit Bruce. He absolutely remembered watching that movie together, but it hadn't been at his place or Tony's, but somewhere with big picture windows filled with the Manhattan skyline. What had Clint called him? Doc?

"Clint, why did you …."

SNAP!

The window was cold against Bruce's cheek where his head had turned as he dozed, the car moving through the night, interstate rolling past under the tires, scattered lights as they passed through a small town on their way home. Still sleeping, Clint's head was curved along Bruce's shoulder, his hair spiked up and tickling Bruce's cheek; one leg was thrown over Bruce's, an arm wrapped around as Clint curled along his side. The backseat of the Jeep left a lot to be desired in terms of leg room or butt room or any room whatsoever, especially with Bruce, Clint, Tony, and Steve crammed together. They were, literally, up close and personal; Steve's head was tilted back at a 90⁰ angle, mouth slightly open as he slept. Tony was perched on his lap, back pressed against the side of the car, his head lolling downward beside Steve's as he snored softly, his knees bent and toes tucked under Clint. There had been lots of hands and elbows in soft places, inappropriate touching on purpose until they were all laughing at themselves getting organized for the long ride back. Natasha gave them a smile when she took her place in the passenger seat next to Thor, but she had laughed along with them when Steve moaned that his legs were falling asleep and nearly dumped Tony off onto Clint.

That was a while ago, almost 18 hours since they'd set out on this road trip with a full tank of gas and last minute tickets for the show of the year, and Thor was the only one fully awake as he drove the last leg, an eclectic playlist soft and constant through the speakers to help him stay focused. Exhaustion had snuck up on them; even Tony had finally sagged down and drifted off, the concert a fading memory, almost as if it was just a dream that Bruce was now waking from. Clint shifted and his thigh rubbed Bruce's cock as he rolled in tighter, tugging the frayed blanket up further – Bruce couldn't remember what day it was, much less the month – and suddenly Clint's hand was splayed on Bruce's abs, working downward until fingers stroked him through the rough denim. Eyes shut, Clint turned his head, burying his lips on the pulse point of Bruce's neck, warmth pouring out with each exhale. Silence for the moment as Bruce started to harden, his eyes cracked to see if anyone else had noticed; Natasha's head was facing the other direction and Tony & Steve were out cold.

The fingers left, caught Bruce's hand and tucked it between Clint's legs with little movement of the blanket to give them away; in the quiet of the car, every hitch of breath seemed loud, but no one else stirred as Clint popped open the button and unzipped Bruce's jeans, metal teeth separating with a distinct sound. Even through the cotton of his briefs, Bruce felt the electricity in the touch, heightened by the risk of discovery, and he bit his lip to keep a groan inside, dipping his own lean fingers into Clint's waistband, opening the jeans up for him to explore. Earlier, in the middle of the din of music and rush of the marijuana that Thor had innocently pulled from his pack, Clint had lured Bruce away, daring him with his eyes to meet him by the portable toilets then dragging him by his t-shirt, pulling the collar out of shape as he pushed him up against one of the crew trailers to ravish his mouth in time to the driving beat that was so loud it shook the metal behind them. They'd kissed for what seemed like hours, grinding against each other until Bruce came first and Clint followed, singing into Bruce's ear the lyrics about never leaving as he did. The water fountain made for some clean up, but, still high and completely sated, they'd paid way too much for a concert t-shirt to help cover the tell-tale stains on Clint's shirt. Everyone but Thor had split the last joint before they left, finishing off every morsel of munchies they'd brought with them in the first hour on the road, Clint taking the cherry twizzlers, unraveling them and passing half to Bruce, while Steve and Tony went through the last of the pretzels, licking salt off their fingers before Steve kissed Tony to get the last bits, much to the cat calls of the rest of them and mock complaints about too much PDA. Natasha threatened anyone who ate the peanut M & Ms; those had disappeared quickly as well.

Now, floating on a haze of good music, sugar, weed, and the incredible feeling of Clint's calloused fingers freeing him from his boxers, sliding along the bare skin of his cock, Bruce didn't care about the close quarters, mesmerized by the blackness of the night, the blue glow of the dash lights, and every beat of his pulse sucked in by Clint's open mouth. He got his own hand on Clint's hard length, buried his nose into Clint's hair – he smelled like sweat and sweet smoke and cherry candy – and they set a slow, languid pace, like a long drive in the dark sending them home to each other. Each time Clint silently moaned … when Bruce's thumb slicked the leaking liquid down the vein or when he squeezed lightly or twisted just a bit as he almost came off the top … Bruce could feel it vibrate along his shoulder, up his neck, down into his chest. They didn't dare move too much, lest they wake the others, but Bruce had to angle his hips so Clint had better access to press those amazing fingers underneath and stroke just behind. He didn't know if the pulsing was his growing need, the turning of the wheels along the asphalt, or the low bass of Thor's music – probably all three - and it became surreal, the tiny shudders quaking him to his very core as he felt his muscles tremble, could feel the contraction of Clint's shoulders, the involuntary motion of Clint's mouth as he pursed it along the straining tendon of Bruce's neck. The only sound he made when he came was a small moan, easy enough to mistake for sleepy sigh; Clint bucked slightly, knocking Tony's knees. They froze, hands wrapped around each other, wet and slippery; Tony cracked his eyes and grumbled.

"Stay on your side, Clint." He rolled his body up along Steve's chest and dropped back into sleep.

The shaking this time was from trying not to laugh out loud; they lost that battle and began to chuckle, until the giggles woke Tony and Steve. Natasha merely blinked and gave them a very knowing smile before she went back to ignoring them. As he laughed, Bruce felt the shifting under his skin, the thing inside of him rumbling; conflicting emotions assailed him – in his altered state, he could hear the monster, the other part of himself, as clear as if he was speaking out loud.

"Cupid, little guy, us. Metal Head, Red, asleep. Not real …."

SNAP!

Tony knew how to throw a celebration; the party spilled early into the morning hours as they mixed bathtub size versions of Sex on the Beach and Virgin Kisses, dumping in alcohol and mixes by the liters and adding pails of ice. When they ran out of strawberries for the margaritas, they went through watermelon, grapes and even tried olives; Thor declared that black mess undrinkable, sticking with the PGA punch that Hank had brewed up in the lab. Carol quit riding herd on Peter after her third glass of Toxic Waste from the hall bathroom; he'd climbed up on the industrial piping that ran through the loft ceiling, snatching chips and cocktail wieners from drunk guests. The music was loud enough that the cops had to come by twice; both times Tony cajoled the neighbors who had originally complained into joining them, explaining that Bruce had passed his defense and his experiments would lead to advances in a cure for cancer (that was true actually).

Just an hour before sunrise, the room had cleared out except for the usual suspects. Natasha and Thor appeared as sober as they had at the beginning of the evening; Nat sat next to the sleeping Peter who had crashed on the couch, coming down from a sugar buzz after slamming sodas to show he could keep up with the others. Hank was draped over a chair on the terrace, talking about miniaturization and wasps in long rambling sentences to Carol's feet hanging off the end of a lounge chair as she slept. Tony and Steve had disappeared – Tony's bedroom door was firmly shut – and Bruce had lost track of Clint; last he'd seen, Clint had been tossing what was left of the cheese balls into cups across the room, much admired by a group of fans. Despite his own level of intoxication … he'd paced himself through the evening and eaten along the way so he was in the sweet spot, obviously buzzed but not drunk … he took it upon himself to shut everything down, checking the doors, tossing a blanket over Carol in case she needed it before he wandered into the room he most often used when he stayed at Tony's. The tub was half-full of a red mixture, and the tile floor was sticky, so Bruce didn't linger; when he came back out, tossing off his t-shirt shirt that had gotten beer spilled down its back from a good-intentioned well-wisher, Clint was stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, tanned skin catching the amber light from the bedside lamp, cock hard and aroused as he eyed Bruce.

"You do know that's Virgin Kisses in the bathtub?" Clint grinned. He rolled over on his side and propped his head up on his hand.

"You're drunk and naked in my bed." Bruce almost couldn't believe it.

"Not that drunk. I ate all the Kung Pao Chicken and a healthy helping of Spicy Atomic Wings, so I'm just very, very, very mellow. Besides, I've got something to tell you."

Bruce couldn't drag his eyes away from Clint's body, the play of his muscles as he got comfortable, the line of hair that teased from his belly button down to the very obvious representation of how much Clint wanted him. "Something? Yeah." When he got back to Clint's face, a very amused look greeted him.

"Never done this before. Not to someone and never had it done to me."

That was a blow to Bruce's gut; his cock sat right up and took notice. The thought that they would be each other's first? "Clint. You know I haven't."

"Yep. Now get your ass over here, and let's figure this out together." He reached out his hand, and Bruce didn't hesitate, stripping out of his jeans and boxers, flipping off the light and crawling onto the bed and into Clint's arms. Enough light filtered in through the sheers for Bruce to see how dark Clint's eyes had become, but they mostly used touches to feel their way along each other's body, to come together, flesh sliding along flesh, mouths parting and breathing and finally kissing. With ease, Clint rolled Bruce onto his back and levered himself up so he was looking down on him; his kisses covered Bruce's face, his neck, his shoulders, moving inexorably downward as blonde hair brushed along the skin.

"God, I love you, Doc. I know I can be an ass sometimes. Can't imagine why you put up with me." He licked at first one and then the other of Bruce's nipples.

"What … what did you do?" Bruce moaned.

"Just wait until you check your phone. Tony and I may or may not have drunk texted. And there may be some pictures. I'm not exactly sure who we sent them to, you or Steve." Clint sucked some bruises near Bruce's bellybutton. "It was worth it to see Steve throw Tony over his shoulder and storm off, though."

"Oh, god … wait, what? How did I miss that?" Bruce lifted up on his elbows.

"Yep, picked him up, told him to shut up and smacked him hard on the ass before he carried him into the bedroom. You were saying good bye to your professor when it happened. Have the pics to prove it." Clint ran his tongue down the trail of dark hair and Bruce jumped when Clint's chin brushed against his rock hard cock. "Got a little green-eyed monster of my own there when that prof squeezed your ass."

"Man's a menace, but I need his recommendation … oh, fuck, Clint. I'm not going to last." Bruce arched up when Clint palmed his balls and twirled his fingers up the length and around the head. "You know I love your fingers on me."

"On you." Clint licked from root to top and added a swirl for good measure, sucking off a pearly drop that was already forming. "In you." His lips parted and slid down until his nose touched Bruce's wiry hair then he dragged back up, sucking in his cheeks as he did, making Bruce practically jump off the bed.

"God, yes. In me. You. I want you inside me." He had to choke out the words as Clint busied himself taking in as much of Bruce's cock as he could, head bobbing up and down until Bruce thought he was going to explode.

"Come on, Big Guy," Clint waited, his lips just short of the wet gleaming tip. "You know you want to."

Bruce did, he wanted so much, and so did the Big Guy inside of him, who wrapped his hands into Clint's head, held him steady and began to thrust into the willing mouth with abandon; bumping the back of his throat, Bruce could feel Clint gag but hold on, sucking hard as he could. "Fuck. Fuck. I'm going to …" And he was spilling into Clint's mouth, the reflexive swallow and then Clint's tongue licking him clean. "Clint, Clint, god, Clint. I need …"

Swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Clint grabbed two pillows and positioned them under Bruce's hips; his hand scrabbled on the bed and he came up with a bottle of lube and a foil packet, which he opened and rolled down, groaning at the touch of his own hands. Bruce, still reeling with aftershocks, felt the first slick slide of fingers circling him, and he tensed up underneath Clint's gentle touch.

"So," Clint added a hand brushing lightly along Bruce's inner thigh, "who do you think is on top? Steve or Tony?" Without hesitation, he pushed one finger past the tight ring, easing it inside.

"Wha.. what?" Bruce blinked, body clenching around the intrusion, a bit of pain and discomfort washing over him.

"Who do you think is on top? Steve or Tony?" Clint leaned over and licked a line along Bruce's thigh, a very sensitive spot, as he slipped his finger out and back in.

"You've been practicing." Bruce breathed out, consciously relaxing; it wasn't as painful, more just the unfamiliar fullness.

"Watch a lot of porno, doc." Clint laughed, crooked his finger and a jolt ran up Bruce's spine into the pleasure center of his brain.

"God, that's …" Bruce gasped out. "Do it again."

"I'll try." Clint moved and shifted, crooked and stroked until he hit the spot again.

"Fuck." Bruce bucked a little that time. "They use spit in porno Clint. That's just nasty. Add another one."

"Bossy," Clint mock complained, but he dribbled more lube and pushed a second finger in.

"Oh, god, oh, god …" Bruce felt the burn and stretch, and he tried his best not to think about it or tighten up.

"You didn't answer my question." Clint rotated his fingers, gel making the slide easy and smooth; he experimented, in and out, around, crooking them together and separate. Sometimes, Bruce would groan and swear, finally begging Clint for more.

"Oh hell, Clint," Bruce breathed when the third finger went in; thinking about something else helped him relax. "Steve, of course. But Tony … god … yes … Tony won't shut up the whole time …. Fuck," he said as Clint stroked his already half-hard cock again – he knew he had a short recovery time, but this was fast even for him. Together, fingers inside and hand stroking, Bruce felt something unfurl in his gut, something familiar and red hot and sweet all at the same time. "Clint. Now. Please?"

The absence of the fullness of Clint's fingers suddenly made him feel bereft, but then the tip of Clint's cock nudged and pushed and inched in, fuller and wider and so much more satisfying that he ignored the burn completely, lifting his hips up to meet Clint as he finally slid all the way in with the help of more lube. Leaning down, Clint caught Bruce's mouth in a fiercely possessive kiss.

"God, Bruce. So tight, so hot, so good." Clint seemed to be out of words to describe it, so he used his mouth to suck some bruises along Bruce's neck, leaving hickeys that he'd have no way to hide. "I'm going to … I need to …"

"Move." Bruce helped by shifting his body, and Clint groaned as he gave a tentative shallow thrust, and then another, and then he pressed alongside Bruce's prostate, and they were both gone, over the edge into pure desire, running together as if they'd done this many times before, like they knew every stutter and hitch and tiny breath and what it meant. They communicated without words, thrusts growing in power and need until Clint was out-of-breath and Bruce was rocking beneath him, calling Clint's name. When Clint's climax broke over him, he plunged one last time; he slumped forward, wrapped his hand around Bruce and a few pulls were all it took until Bruce was falling over the edge again. He tumbled into the other part of himself, feeling the change take over; Clint shoved back, his eyes widening, recognition dawning.

"Bruce? Big Guy?" He moved back, pulling away. "What the hell? Hey, it's me."

"Cupid?" Skin was shifting to green, muscles growing; Bruce tried to shut it down, to bring it back under control. "Not right."

"I know, Big Guy. We're being manipulated. I need to talk to …"

**SNAP!**

_He walked through the room, the occupants in their bed, bodies curled around each other under the sheets; they'd been moving, twitching as they fought to wake up, Banner even starting to change. Putting them under even deeper, he felt the stillness of the magic reasserting itself._

"_Now, you, Dr. Banner, were a poor choice for the first scenario." He lifted up the corner of the sheet and peeked under, whistling as he did. "Here I thought we'd get Thunderdome or something, and instead it's sweet first love with a helping of Friends thrown in. No wonder the Hulk couldn't keep quiet. I'll have to give you a triple whammy next time."_

_The room changed as he stepped from one place to the next; Tony lay quiet, his head down on his work table, face turned sideways. _

"_Well, I imagine I'll get something racy from you, Earth's answer to Jack Harkness." He leaned over and touched his finger to Tony's temple. "Your turn Tony. Time to choose."_


	4. In the Mood

NEW YORK CITY, JULY 1942

"Know what I'm in the mood for? A good cheeseburger."

Tony Stark was tired of the endless meetings, nothing but talk, talk, talk and no answers. Now was not the time to dither and go off half-cocked. But government types wanted to be in charge of the project and the military leaders wanted him to cut corners in safety and make things cheaper. It was enough to make a grown man cry and drive Tony Stark into a greasy spoon for something fried and slathered with mayonnaise. And a beer. Yeah, a cold beer would help.

"Mr. Stark, you're expected at the Waldorf for lunch with the Colonel Marshall to discuss the proposed sites," Michael said, looking over the daily schedule, neatly typed but with many notations and additions. "We don't have time …"

"I hear there's a really good diner that's just opened three blocks over," Clint offered from his place in the passenger seat of the limo. Thor was riding in the back with Tony & Michael, Happy negotiating the busy streets, taxis cutting in and out. "Old marine buddy told me about it. Owner's an ex-military guy."

"Sounds like a plan. Hap?" Used to Tony's whims, Happy followed Clint's directions, pulling up in front of the small silver building with the flashing neon sign declaring it Cap's Diner.

"Tony! We can't blow off Marshall," Michael kept arguing even as Tony followed Thor out the door, Clint falling in behind him.

"You're right. Happy, take Michael to the Waldorf. Take good notes," Tony laughed, letting the door swing shut in Michael's surprised face. "Now. Burger and beer?"

_*Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, anyone else but me 'til I come marching home*_

The jukebox blared out the Andrew Sisters as the lunch rush started; almost all the stools at the counter were taken up with a mixture of cops from the local precinct house just down the block and students from Columbia University. The red vinyl seats of the booths were filled with business men and CU faculty, chattering, the narrow aisle full of waitresses with plates of food balanced on circular platters. The star spangled motif could have been overwhelming, but it stopped short, just enough memorabilia, shining new stainless steel and white linoleum floors. Most humanizing of all were the photos on the walls – G.I.s from all branches of the military in snapshots and formal portraits, at home and abroad.

"Give us just a second," a lovely red head whose name tagged read Nat said with a slight hint of an accent. "Peter!" she turned and called to a teenager chatting with a pretty red-haired younger waitress. Gangly in that half-grown way that could be endearing or annoying, he fumbled, almost dropping the dirty dishes, catching the grey plastic tub before it fell. She nodded to a booth, and the busboy hurried over to clean it off.

Laughter caught Tony's attention; at the counter, a lovely brunette, petite with a sparkle in her eyes, was scribbling on a pad of paper with a pencil, turning it back towards the man sitting on the stool. He had brown curling hair, his tweed jacket rumpled and the knot of his purple striped tie cockeyed; pushing up his wire-rimmed glasses, he made some changes with his own pencil and slid it back.

"Ah, Thor? Buddy?" Clint nudged the big blonde, knocking him back into the here and now; tipping his fedora, Thor continued to stare.

"I think I'll take that empty stool. I can keep an eye out there. You take the booth." And then he was stepping up and sliding onto the red topped seat, casting that charming Nordic smile at the woman, earning a wary glance from the man.

"Looks like we've lost the big guy for a bit," Tony laughed as he and Clint headed to the now clear table. "The man in the tweed looks familiar though. It'll come to me." He rifled through his mind for where he'd seen that face before, but he was at a loss. Not enough caffeine today, he guessed. Taking the plastic covered menu, he scanned down the offerings; sure enough there was an All-American cheeseburger with fries. "What do you think – cheeseburger or …." The younger red-head went by carrying a loaded tray with plates of meatloaf and a big turkey club sandwich "… meatloaf. And gravy. With mashed potatoes. Clint? Did you see that?"

"Un-huh, yeah," Clint muttered, his eyes glued to the man in tweed by Thor; specifically, Tony noticed Clint's gaze was centered on the curve of the man's ass in his khakis.

"Nice looking, 'eh?" Tony asked and then kicked Clint's ankle hard under the table.

"Ouch! What?" Clint shot back, more than a little pissed off at the antics.

"He's cute and I think I know him. Want me to introduce you?" Tony wiggled his eyebrows, taking off his hat and laying it on the seat. "If I could just remember his name or where I've seen … oh, yes, that's it." He stood and took the three steps over to the counter. "Dr. Banner?" Holding out his hand, Tony waited for recognition in the man's brown eyes; Clint was right. The doctor was very handsome.

It took only a second. "Mr. Stark. I can't believe you remember me. We met, what, once? At that conference in Lucerne."

"Why don't you join us?" Tony motioned to the table and saw that Clint was sitting with that stubborn little line of his mouth that said he wasn't happy with Tony. "It might just be a lucky coincidence to run into you today."

"Um, sure," Bruce looked hesitant, but he picked up his glass of iced tea and the pad of paper and moved over.

"Oh, Clint Barton, Dr. Bruce Banner. Clint works with me." That was how Tony always introduced Clint, never as Head of Stark Security or his bodyguard or any other way that might suggest Clint wasn't a friend and colleague because Clint and Thor, along with Rhodey and Piper, really were his best friends. Didn't matter that Clint didn't have anything more than a GED and Thor, well, who knew what education he had? Clint had just shown up one day with the man after hiring him on the spot; one night of Thor drinking Tony under the table had been all it had taken for Tony to decide he liked the guy too.

"Mr. Barton. Nice to meet you," Bruce stammered a little bit, which could be chalked up to shyness or something else, and offered his hand; Clint eased his hand into the proffered palm and the two men looked as if they'd been struck by lightning, freezing that way for just a second before they let the touch go. Like some sort of chemical reaction, two compounds that attracted each other and fused together right before Tony's eyes – see? Tony thought, he could be romantic no matter what his many past lovers had said. Smacking Clint on the shoulder to get him to shove over, Tony neatly maneuvering himself into the empty bench and left Bruce the only option of sitting knee to thigh to shoulder with Clint.

"Would you boys like something to drink?" Nat stopped at their table, one eye on Peter who was cleaning off booths fast as a wink to keep up with the steady flow of patrons coming in and out.

"I'll take a Schaefer in a bottle cold if you have it," Tony ordered and Nat nodded in response. She turned to Clint and a smile curled around her lips.

"You look more like a milkshake type to me. Chocolate malted? Cap makes the best in the borough."

"They are good," Bruce agreed and that was all the encouragement Clint needed.

"Sounds like a plan," Clint said. Nat nodded at him and strolled off.

"Wow. She usually doesn't take to people that quickly," Bruce laughed. "You must be special." Then a blush stole up his neck as he realized what he'd said.

Clint gave the doctor his most charming smile. "I'm just likable, what can I say."

"Okay, okay," Tony broke in, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the way things were spiraling out of his control, or at least with the way he was no longer the center of attention. First Thor – who was even now flirting outrageously with the brunette waitress, making her cheeks red as she giggled … giggled! … at something he'd said – and now Clint going all googly eyed over a professor? What was going on? "Enough of that," he said, but he added a grin to make sure they knew he was just teasing.

"So what brings you to New York, Mr. Stark?" Bruce asked after he tore his gaze away from Clint's face.

"Tony, please." He'd lost all interest in the menu, watching the platters of food coming out of the kitchen with regularity. Everything smelled good, looked great, and suddenly his stomach was rumbling. "I understand your colleague there at Columbia, Dr. Henry Pym, is doing some work for the Army Corp of Engineers?" The difficultly lay in how to say something without saying anything; top secret government programs were like that.

Bruce's eyes shuttered; he knew exactly what Tony was hinting at, but obviously didn't like it. "Yes. Hank's got some very interesting theories about miniaturization. A number of people are interested."

Tony read that as the oblique warning it was; he didn't need to say anything further. "And how's your researching going? Gamma radiation from outer space, if I remember?"

With a nod, Bruce sat back in the seat, nervously rubbing his hands on his thighs; the man probably should never play poker with that face. "Well. Very well. Some very interesting results with respect to potential cancer treatments."

Clint's eyes bounced back and forth between the two men; he didn't have to understand what they were specifically talking about to sense the undercurrent. One of the things Clint was good at was reading people and making contingency plans.

"Here's your BLT, Bruce." Nat sat the plate down on the table; crisp toasted bread was piled high with crunchy bacon, slices of red ripe tomatoes and green lettuce, sauce oozing from the top slice. A cone of butcher paper held sliver thin fries, golden and still hot from the fryer, salt and green flecks of seasoning covering them. "Yours will be right out," she said to the others.

"Wait!" Tony called as she started away. "We haven't ordered yet."

"Cap's got a sixth sense about these things. Don't worry." She just winked and went back to work.

"He really does, you know," Bruce offered; Clint boldly snagged a fry, popped it in his mouth and then closed his eyes at the pleasure of the taste.

"Damn, those are good," he breathed and reached for another. As if they'd known each other for forever, Bruce smacked it away without even pausing to look.

"Steve learned how to make them in France." Bruce was waiting, but Tony waved him to go on, so he picked up half the monstrous sized sandwich and bit into it, closing his eyes just like Clint as he chewed.

"Okay, now I really need a cheeseburger," Tony groused. He tossed his arm across the seat back and pushed into the corner by the window, his double-breasted suit jacket riding up. "So, Bruce … Bruce is okay?" He got a nod to that and he tried to ignore the love-struck looks Clint was sneaking beneath his lashes as the professor licked some grease and a drop of sauce off his fingers. "You free for dinner tonight? I'd love to pick your brain about new progress in the field."

Hesitating for a second, he continued eating. "Are you asking me on a date, Stark?" Bruce laughed. "Kinda early for that isn't it?"

He paid no attention to the daggers Clint sent him; when was the last time he'd seen Clint jealous? Had he ever? Yeah, there was that guy in the Bahamas last year, but he'd turned out to be a dud all around. "Just trying to beat out the competition and have a friendly dinner with a fellow scientist. Can't let Hammer get a jump on us."

"And here we go," Nat said. First she gave Tony his beer and a very large malted to Clint, droplets of condensation rolling down the sides of the glass. She followed with plates of food; a large burger for Tony, brioche bun toasted, layered with two different cheeses and garnishes, a side of the delicious fries. Clint got what looked for the world like a grilled cheese with dark toasted rye bread. "Enjoy, boys." She smiled at Clint and ignored the others.

"Yes." Tony wrapped his hands around the two inch thick patty plus fluffy fresh bread. He had to turn his head sideways to taste, but as soon as he did, his eyes opened wide, and he huffed out his pleasure as he chewed. "Hell's bells. What is inside that?" Thick white cheese oozed from the center and a red marinara sauce was liberally spread on the bun.

"Italian burger." Bruce told him. "There are seven different ones; he changes them every day."

The sound that came out of Clint's mouth as he tried his sandwich could only be described as filthy; Bruce's cheeks flared red as he shuddered a little in response to the throaty moan. "Mac and cheese. A grilled mac and cheese sandwich," Clint managed to say around the cheesy goodness. "Oh, my. Tony, this is better than …" He paused, glancing over at Bruce and stopping himself.

"Better than sex?" Tony poked at Clint, pushing him and enjoying it. "Obviously you haven't been sleeping with the right men." Bruce's eyes widened at that then glanced briefly over at Clint.

"I'd be angry with you but this is too good. Shut up and let me enjoy it."

"I take it you approve?" The man stopped at the edge of the table, his apron tied around his trim waist, shirt sleeves rolled up to bare his forearms; Tony's eyes wondered up the body, noting the triangle of skin that showed beneath his unbuttoned collar, the strong chin, and then he was caught by the most vivid blue eyes he'd ever seen, falling into them until he forgot to breath. "Nice of you to visit, Mr. Stark. I'm honored you could stop by."

Tony almost couldn't answer and he was never without a witty remark; summoning up his inner smartass, he responded. "I was in the neighborhood," he said with a shrug to show he was unaffected by the hunky sexiness standing with his crotch at eye level. "You must be Cap."

"Steve Rogers. Not in the army anymore." He offered his hand, and Tony swiped the grease off on his expensive pants before he reached out; Rogers palm was warm enough that Tony could feel the heat up his arm and down into his chest. He had no idea why this clean cut military type was pushing all of his buttons. Rogers really wasn't his type; Tony liked them experienced and disposable, no entanglements.

"Well, Steve, this burger is excellent." He turned up the charm to level eleven and watched a healthy blush flood Rogers cheeks as Tony gave him his patented fuck me look. "My kudos to the chef."

There were four of them and they entered quickly, guns raised as they slammed in through the door. Thor was already off his stool, pistol in his hand; he tackled the first one to the ground before any shots were fired and headed for the second. Shoving Bruce sideways to the floor, Clint dived across the table, throwing himself between Tony and the line of fire; from his vantage point, Tony saw the red-haired waitress – Nat – slam another with a coffee pot, showering him with hot liquid. It was Steve who grabbed one of the metal serving trays and deflected the first bullets aimed their way, shouting for everyone to get down as he did. With a flick of the wrist, Steve sent the tray flying, crashing into the third man's head, taking him down; the grey plastic tub of dirty dishes smashed into the fourth guy courtesy of the busboy Peter. The cops at the counter were scattering, pinning the assailants to the ground, confiscating weapons and shouting at them to stay down.

"Everyone okay?" Steve asked, taking charge of the situation. Tony pushed Clint off of him and sat up, assessing the damage. Bruce was picking himself up from the floor; Clint sat back into the booth.

"Clint, you're hit." Tony saw the tear in the fabric of Clint's suit slashed across his upper arm, turning the grey pinstripe dark with blood. Bruce caught his arm and used a napkin to staunch the bleeding, looking at the wound.

"Damn it, I smashed my sandwich." Clint's dejected look earned a bark of laughter from Steve.

"Don't worry, I'll make you another one. This one on the house."

…

Turns out, attempting a snatch and grab in a diner full of cops wasn't the greatest idea; even after the feds showed up, the guys from the precinct took the lead, retelling the events in succinct short sentences. The government types gave way to military, until finally a General himself took charge, overriding all the others for custody of prisoners. Tony sat back and watched it all unfold, the afternoon disappearing as the diner closed to the public while they processed the crime scene. One thing he did notice was the way Dr. Banner slipped into the back when General Ross showed up, quietly and with little fuss, head down and face hidden. He nodded for Clint to follow, to see what was up; handling a pompous windbag like Ross was Tony's gift. Tony hated him on sight.

"Probably Russian spies," Ross declared. The man was red in the face, full of bluster and his own importance. "Marshall should have you locked down, Stark."

"Well, now, I'm not averse to being tied up, but I'm afraid Marshal doesn't do it for me." Tony swirled his third beer bottle; it wasn't enough to give him more than a tingle, but he had acting drunk down to an art form. "I much prefer blondes with very tight …"

"God damn it, Stark," Ross stormed, glaring down at Tony. "You're a menace. If you're daddy's company didn't have so many contracts with the military, no one would put up with your attitude."

"Ah, yes, Stark Industries will gladly take the army's money." He winked at Steve who was leaning behind the counter, Gwen, the young red-headed waitress, and Jane, the brunette Thor was so taken with, beside him. Nat, the other red-head, sat quietly on a stool, casual to onlookers, but Tony could sense the tension just beneath the surface. Walking over to one of the attackers, Tony tipped his hat back and peered down at them. "Looks American to me, Ross. Probably hired by a jealous husband; there might be a few of those out there."

Ross sputtered and turned away, signaling for his men to gather up the criminals. "You're a piece of work, Stark" he added as a parting shot. "We'll be seeing each other."

Once the military were gone, Steve started cooking again for the cops, crime scene guys, and the remaining feds, laughing easily and passing around delicious looking food. He wouldn't take any money for it, insisting he needed to use up today's lunch specials, and none of the others argued all too hard. Tony wandered back into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, and watched the man work; he was all economy of motion, khakis tight in all the right places – man had an ass you could bounce pennies off of – and his blue checkered shirt highlighted his eyes, not that Tony noticed those kinds of things; the pull of the cotton over Rogers shoulders and arms made him want to see how much the man could hold up – like maybe Tony's entire weight while pressed to a wall, preferably being fucked senseless at the time. Or maybe hold him down, fingers pressing bruises … a feeling flickered on the edge of his memory for just a second.

"You hungry, Mr. Stark?" Steve asked without turning, flipping a grilled mac-n-cheese sandwich. "You didn't get to finish your burger earlier."

Tony might have imagined the underlying sense of humor in the sexy voice – he wasn't the best judge of those sorts of things. Machines he intuitively knew and understood; humans, not so much. "Actually, looking for Clint. He wandered back this way earlier, and I was going to check in on his arm."

"Head on back the hallway to the office or they might be in the storeroom," Steve suggested; obviously, Tony thought, he'd seen Banner disappear too. "I'll have you something ready in a jiffy."

There wasn't much more to the place; Rogers had used as much as possible for the gleaming clean kitchen and the front area. Just a small walk-in freezer, a compulsively neat store room lined with shelves, and a small office, currently occupied by one Clint Barton and Dr. Bruce Banner, so intent on each other that they didn't notice Tony cracking the doorway to get a glimpse. Clint was seated on the edge of the desk, wearing only his undershirt and slacks, white bandage around his bicep; Bruce was leaning forward, one hand wrapped around Clint's neck, holding him still, and the other pushing up the soft cotton of the t-shirt, fingers stroking over taut abs. They were kissing, although that word didn't do justice to what Tony saw before him; lips tangled together and then shifting, heads tilting, Bruce's fingers flexing as he pulled Clint in tighter, mouths opening and deepening, tongues sliding and exploring – the contact was getting progressively hotter, a palpable tension in the air. Clint opened his legs and caught Bruce's belt with his hands, dragging him in closer until their hips bumped, moans were ripped from their throats, eyes squeezed shut, and friction was generated as their bodies rubbed together. It was mesmerizing to watch, so … beautiful was the only word Tony could come up with and that fell far short. They were absolutely amazing, so gorgeous together, the contact so intimate that even Tony felt like an intruder on a sacred scene. Didn't stop his own cock from stirring as they increased the speed of their still fully clothed thrusts.

A hand tugged Tony back and eased the door shut in his face. He blinked, coming back to himself, and looked over to see Rogers, a red blush staining his cheeks.

"We should give them some privacy," Steve cleared his throat to get the words out. "Don't you think?"

"Um, yeah, yes. We should." Tony was aching from the sight of such a perfect fit. "That was … freakin' unbelievable, you know? God, I need a drink or a fuck now, one or the other or both." He wasn't really thinking about Rogers at the moment, the image of the two men – and what they were probably doing right this very instance – fresh in his mind, but he caught the reaction, startled turning into … was that interest before his eyes settled into mild amusement?

"Well, I have some whiskey under the counter if you want a glass. That's the best I can do at the moment with all the cops still here." He moved smoothly out into the restaurant and Tony followed, his brain reeling from the statement Rogers had just made. At the moment. Not, that's the best he could do period because sex was out of the question, but the best he could do with everyone else still here. Damn. Tony tossed back the first shot Rogers … Steve … handed him and sat the empty down for another.

"Is Clinton alright?" Thor asked; he was standing protectively next to Jane. "Should we return now or will he need a hospital?"

"Clint is fine, but, um, tied up for a bit." No, no, Tony did not need that picture in his head. Try again. "I'm asked him to speak to Dr. Banner for me, and it might take a while." That was better. Too bad Thor grinned knowingly, and Steve tucked his chin to his chest to hide his smile, turning to take the last few plates of food in the window, sitting one before Tony and taking the other for himself. Without thinking, Tony scooped up a bite of the steaming fragrant chicken pot pie and ate it; the slightly spicy taste exploded in his mouth with an after burn of heat, foreign to Tony's taste buds. "Holy hell, this is delicious. Who are you, and where have you been all my life?"

One of the last remaining cops laughed; his name tag read Coulson. "Boys, we've got a pot pie virgin over here. You'll never be the same, Mr. Stark, once you've had Cap's."

Damn it, Steve blushed again. "No need for flattery guys. You'll still get your discount."

Tony almost choked when the look Steve gave him out of the corner of his eye was so blatant, even he got the message. "Alas, I think I am ruined forever by the perfection."

"Nah, man, just wait until you taste Cap's apple pie." Coulson grinned. "That is a taste bud destroying experience. Better than … well, let's just say it's really, really, really good."

"It's not that good," Steve protested as Coulson pushed his now empty, licked clean plate away.

"Hey, Cap," the officer picked up the dented tray Steve had used earlier. "You going to sign this for me? Nice keepsake. Maybe we'll put it up on the wall here in the diner." The others laughed and urged him on; Steve finally took the pen and signed with a flourish to cheers and catcalls. After that, the last of the cops rounded up their gear and left, promising to keep Steve in the loop and that they'd be back for pie later. Tony nodded to Thor and looked back to see Clint wandering out of the kitchen munching half of a grilled mac and cheese sandwich, Bruce behind him, finishing his own half of the sandwich. Both were back in their jackets, but there were tell-tale signs of their illicit activities, and Tony knew exactly where to look. He gave Clint an eyebrow wiggle and got a smug smile in return.

"Well, time to salvage this day," Steve started back into the kitchen; Tony handed him a napkin with an address written on it.

"Send the bill for the repairs and any loss of income here. I'll be in town all week." Tony could tell Steve wanted to argue. "They were shooting at me Rogers. Only fair I pay for the cleanup. Besides, I intend to try all seven of your daily burgers so it's in my best interest to keep you in business."

"All right, Mr. Stark, but …"

"Tony." He smiled, slow and sexy. Steve blushed. God in heaven, but Tony wanted to see if the man blushed all over. _(__"Everywhere," he answered. "What else do you want to know?"__)_ The memory was gone as soon as it darted into his head.

"I'll work up a bill, Tony, and send it to you."

Steve turned to head into the kitchen but Nat blocked his way. "This is your night off."

"I need to get the dinner special going and …" Steve started to argue.

"We talked about this. You're going to have to trust us to run this place sometime. This is as good a time as any." Nat stood her ground; Jane, Peter, and Gwen joined her. "Darcy will be here soon and Carol's coming in to replace Gwen. We'll be fine. You know I can cook those dishes; you taught me, remember?"

"Fine. But at least let me …."

"Hey, Rogers, why don't you drop by my place and let someone else cook you dinner for once?" Tony threw the challenge out there, and Nat took it up with a gleam in her eye.

"Sounds good, Steve. Go let Mr. Stark wine and dine you. About time someone did."

"I just met you," Steve said to Tony. "It's too fast for a … dinner." He glanced at the others, but they were offering no support, all of them sporting silly grins.

"Consider it a double date then. Banner's coming."

Bruce looked surprised at that pronouncement. "Am I?" Clint nodded and Bruce relaxed a little. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Good, that's settled. Be there at seven," Tony said with a smile at winning. But then, he always charmed people into doing what he wanted. And he wanted Steve.


	5. In the MIddle of My Backswing?

CHAPTER 5 "In the Middle of My Backswing?"

PLANET P3X-784 MIDGARDEN

Steve's favorite part of visiting a new planet as a member of SG-1 was trying to describe the differences in smells and color; each one of them had a unique spot on the spectrum. Maybe it was the lurking artist in him that made him see the way the sky of Chulak fell somewhere between china blue and washed denim or how the sands of Abydos varied from a ginger to a terra cotta to a merlot as the sun set in the evening. This place … P3X-784 or Midgarden as the inhabitants called it … was a water planet, with craggy coastlines, dense forests, a chill air that brought the saltiness of the ocean on fierce breezes. He often thought he could name a place after only a few steps out of the Stargate; sometimes Clint gave him grief, refusing to tell him where they were going to see if Steve could really do it. General Coulson just rolled his eyes in briefings when Clint tried to redact the name of the planet, but Coulson drew aline the time Clint produced a blindfold to test Steve's sense of smell. Of course, that didn't stop Clint; he might be a Colonel and the head of the team, but he was a big kid sometimes, pretending he didn't understand Tony's long technical explanations just to get Stark's goat.

Midgarden was a playground for an archeologist like Steve; the ruins that the Midgardians had uncovered when they found the Stargate were yielding an amazing amount of information on the humans' diaspora from Earth at the hands of the Goa'uld. He could barely contain his excitement as he snapped pictures of the ancient writing on the excavated walls. Of particular interest was a section on how the early Midgardians had overthrown their oppressors using what appeared to be some sort of an unknown alien weapon; Clint would be happy to hear they might actually be able to learn about new technology with military applications.

"Very interesting," Natasha said as she cleared off another section of the text, pushing a dangling bit of red hair back behind her ear. Even though Natasha shared her body with the symbiote Anise, she was the specialist in the ancient language of the Celts; it was fascinating to work with her as she shifted back and forth between the two personas, sharing their knowledge. "The Ogham changes here. I think this is older based upon the difference in the thorn symbol. We may be getting closer to when the Goa'uld were overthrown; this phrase translates to Atone-neecs."

"The Atoneeks? Like the ones who made the armbands?" Peter asked; the very green lieutenant was on his first off-world mission, far too eager, reminding Steve of himself at that young age, all gung-ho and ready to save the world. Kid was a genius, as smart as Tony when it came to biomechanics and Carol in biology. A camera flashed and Steve hid his grin at Parker's enthusiasm; kid's real love was photography which made Steve the best candidate to shepherd the young man until he had a little more experience, both of them being arty types, as Clint had declared. That and the fact Tony or Clint or Bruce wouldn't put up with Peter's smartass comments very long; Steve had gotten used to the snark that flew between the other three members of his team, so handling an almost 17-year-old was a piece of cake.

"That would explain the Midgardian's super human like abilities. Maybe they were able to successfully integrate the metabolic changes in their genetic structure." Steve flinched at the memory of their experience with that alien technology; the armbands made them stronger, faster, smarter, but they'd also almost killed Clint, Tony and himself first by overtaxing their bodies and then by abandoning them just when they need them the most. Clint still hadn't forgiven Anise/Natasha for not telling them everything in the beginning, and even Natasha's attraction to Clint didn't mitigate the fact that they almost lost Tony on the raid.

Voices came down the half-cleared passageway; the first to appear was Tony who deep into talk about the reactor and sustainable fusion with one of the Midgardian scientists. Stark had almost jumped out of his chair when the first reports came back, and Steve could understand why. Nuclear energy … cold fusion as scientists called it … was a holy grail for clean power. Tony was followed closely by Dr. Jane Foster, a scientist from Area 51, who was drawing equations on her tablet, asking questions when Tony paused long enough for her to get a word in edgewise. Petite and pretty, Dr. Foster packed a punch and didn't put up with any shit from anyone; everyone on the team loved working with her.

Unerringly, Steve's attention was drawn to Clint, the leader of SG-1 who could give Peter advanced lessons in sarcasm and humor. Always carrying his weapons, Clint was the glue that held them together, and Tony's quick glance his way made Steve recognize that he was staring again; he ignored Tony's shit-eating grin – the man was insufferable sometimes, giving Steve so much grief about this supposed crush on Clint – and turned his attention to the man Clint was talking to, Thor, the royal prince heir to the throne of Midgarden. The big blonde had been nothing but welcoming since Stargate Command had answered the first messages through the gate. If he'd had his way, there would be a feast every night and they'd all be living in luxury at his palace rather than the military issued tents on site. Not that the tents were all that bad, they meant less time lost to travel, but the plush beds and silk sheets would be a welcome change from utilitarian cots and scratchy wool blankets.

Bruce took up a position by the bottom of the stairs; the alien member of the team, Bruce was a jaffa, a human raised to serve the Gao'uld. He carried an infant symbiote within; they needed a human body to incubate in and, in return, the jaffa host received excellent health and long life. Out of the team, Bruce was the quietest, often listening and watching, always on guard. Part of that was his personality, but the rest was ingrained by his treatment in Apophis's service. Right now, he was intent on the person coming down the stairs last.

Slinking in behind Thor was Loki, and Steve suppressed an irritated sigh. The man was a gigantic pain in the ass, even if he was a good four inches shorter than Steve; Thor practically towered over his brother, so it was hard to see any family resemblance. Exactly what bothered him, Steve couldn't put a finger on, but the brown haired, green-eyed prince just rubbed him wrong. Maybe it was the way Clint reacted to him; usually laid back, a visceral hatred had rolled off Clint from the very first introduction. And Steve didn't want to go that direction right now, thinking about Clint. They were teammates, he repeated to himself as he turned back to the wall. Despite the teasing and banter and pet names and … Nope. Nothing more.

"So, Steve," Clint drawled, stepping up a little too close behind him, invading his personal space to make him flustered. It was one of Clint's favorite tactics to rattle Steve's cage, especially when Clint had nothing to do but wait for the scientists to do their work. "How much longer?"

He wanted to sigh, but he knew that would only egg Clint on. "There's enough here to study for years, Clint. The Midgardian history is unique; they overthrew the Gao'uld on their own before the Asgard put them under their protection. Hell, this is the first culture we've run across where the people know the Asgardians are aliens, but still keep the tradition of using Asgardian names for their royal family members."

"If what Natasha has found is right, we may know the reason the Midgardians are so strong." Peter was practically bouncing on his toes, so thrilled he didn't think twice about speaking his thoughts out loud. Then his face froze and his eyes widened as he looked at Clint. "Um, I mean, yeah, our Tok'ra ally has made an interesting discovery, sir."

"Parker, is it?" Clint eyed the kid up and down, cocked one eyebrow and waited. Peter shifted on the balls of his feet and then stepped back with a respectful nod.

"Peter's right, Clint. The wall mentions the Atoneeks." Turning Clint's attention back to him, Steve pointed to the spot on the wall; Peter didn't know yet how to tell when Clint was joking. Truth was, sometimes Steve still didn't always know when Clint was really being funny or trying to cloak his feelings in witty remarks and looks.

"Atoneeks? Armband guys?" Clint obviously wasn't please with that, his nose scrunching up in distaste. "And Anise is conveniently here again? Great."

"I assure you, Colonel Barton," Natasha's voice dropped into Anise's more powerful one. "It is purely coincidence."

"Lady, where you're concerned, I don't believe in that word. Between armbands and Za'tarc detectors, you are just one bad penny, you know that?" Despite his words, Clint leaned in to look at the wall, even though he couldn't read any of the symbols, and it brought him close enough for Steve to feel his breath on the back of his neck. A shiver of awareness trickled down his spine, but Steve ignored it or tried to.

"I have already apologized for the misunderstandings, Colonel. You are the one who won't let them go." Natasha/Anise huffed in the way only a Tok'ra could, an icy hauteur that translated all too easily into superiority. Tok'ra did not understand human emotions, or else they didn't listen to any warning their hosts gave them; it didn't take a rocket scientist to understand that making Clint admit under examination his feelings about his team members would make him wary of trust the Tok'ra again. Add on top of that, the death of Martouf, Tony's Tok'ra friend, and, well, Steve was surprised that Clint had agreed Anise/Natasha could accompany them on this trip at all.

"Well, look at that!" Loki peered around Clint and pointed to a part of the text on the wall that Steve hadn't gotten to yet. "Something about a hidden chamber?" He casually laid his hand on Clint's shoulder and tightened his grip just a little to use as leverage to look closer.

The reaction was instantaneous. Bruce practically jumped the whole distance of the room to wrap his hand around Loki's arm and physically yank back, uttering a very guttural set of words in Goa'uld that quite graphically suggest where Loki could put his hand for the most humiliating pain. Clint spun away from the touch, using his own quite filthy turn of phrase to describe his feelings, raising his zat gun, ready to shoot, electrical impulses flickering along the alien weapon. Tony stepped forward, his weapon drawn, just as Steve jumped up and reached for Clint, holding him back from firing at the alien.

"It's okay, Clint," Steve said. "He didn't mean anything by it."

"Whoa! Calm down. Jumpy much?" Loki's voice dripped with sarcasm, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Brother, we do not yet know the customs of our guests. You should tread lightly until we do." Thor attempted to sooth all parties, easing Loki a step away by catching his jacket and tugging him backwards. "I apologize if we have offended you." He nudged Loki, not subtle at all.

"Of course, accept my apologies. I was so excited by the idea of a secret room that I forgot myself." Oh, that didn't sound at all sincere, not with the accompanying eye roll and shoulder shrug, but Clint pulled himself together and pushed Steve's hands off of him, dropping back into his easygoing attitude.

"Guns down, folks," Clint ordered. "Major." He eyed Tony who hesitated for a second and then lowered his zat.

"You okay, Colonel?" Tony might be military, but he always laced titles with a hint of irony; he was the best of the best when it came to astrophysics and could run circle around the brightest minds MIT had to offer, so his penchant for snark was overlooked as long as he kept saving their asses with his solutions. Still, it mattered to both Clint and Tony, the whole superior officer thing; it was why they kept things very casual, at least that was Steve's read on it.

"Got no complaints, Stark." Clint glanced at Bruce who was still glowering, a green flash in his eyes. The jaffa's symbiote was close to maturation, and when it came of age, it would take over, another being inside that would control his thoughts and his body, trapping him, leaving him to only watch his actions. While there were some Gao'uld who weren't monsters like the Tok'ra and Anise, odds were Bruce would cease to exist and become something else entirely. To see him so close to losing control worried all of them.

"Bruce." Only one word from Clint, and Bruce's shoulders relaxed; he stepped backwards, still on guard, but not as threatening. Bruce had done the unthinkable; he'd cast off his Gao'uld masters who called themselves gods and put his trust in Clint, believing that these people from another planet could help him, give him an option. Of all those Bruce had met, Clint had been the only he'd trusted could actually make a difference. Now, Bruce was an integral part of the team, and Clint was his closest friend; he'd gladly die to keep him safe. "Okay, what about a hidden chamber of secrets? There are no snakes in there? Better not be snakes."

"If I am reading this correctly," Anise/Natasha's fingers traced the markings as she read. "There should be a way in …" She wandered over to the far wall, where they'd yet to even begin working "…somewhere about …" Brushed away dirt, eyeing the wall, Anise/Natasha searched; Steve went to help her only to hear a thrumming sound as a triangle glowed and the floor inside disappeared, revealing a set of metal stairs. For a long moment, everyone stood looking down and then Loki clapped once and grinned; Steve had to admit that he was just as excited.

"Well, who's on first?" Clint looked at Steve and winked; he knew Steve would be chomping at the bit to get in there just as Tony would as well. "I've got a quarter somewhere. Stark, want to call it?"

"Perhaps Thor would like to do the honors?" Steve suggested. Cultural sensitivity was not one of Clint's strong suits; he was a leader, a fighter, a brilliant strategist, but tact wasn't in his vocabulary. He'd once ended up married to a young woman because he took a plate of food and then danced with her; albeit he'd had a few drinks first, but still, when an alien singles you out at a festival that should set off all kinds of warnings.

"Yeah, right, of course. Thor?" Stepping aside, Clint made sure to keep Loki in his sights the whole time.

"Excellent!" Thor exclaimed. "I have not had an adventure in quite a while. Far too much bureaucracy and paperwork for my taste." He had to bend his head to avoid the edge as he descended. Lights flickered on as he went; in a very short time, Thor called back. "All is well. It is another chamber. You may want to see this."

"Parker, you stay up here, just in case. Anise, make sure he knows how to open this thing again." Clint issued orders, and then there was a rush to the stairs. Bruce's stern face and angry glower turned full force on Loki, making him scuttle down between Tony and Steve, letting Clint usher Dr. Foster in line and bring up the rear. Soon as Clint's head was under floor level, the clear material slid shut behind them; he could see up into the room above and a wall panel changed from green to red. The passage ended, opening up into a large square room. Nooks and shelves of all kinds lined the walls along with storage units that gleamed, clean and sterile after all this time, an alien form of writing on each one. Vials with a rainbow of colors, silver instruments, caskets of dark metal, flickering screens … there was too much to take in.

"Jackpot," Tony breathed, reverent and low. "I don't recognize any of this equipment. It's not Gao'uld or Asgardian or even Ancient."

Clint peered into an opening; shiny white, obvious hand grip, red indicators and a muzzle drew his attention. "All right, kiddos, brand new sandbox to play it, but make sure it's safe before you touch …."

"Oops."

Steve's heart sank as he whipped around to see Loki standing with one of the dark caskets in his hands, lid flipped open. First to react was Thor, who slammed the lid shut and scowled at his brother.

"Sorry!" Loki offered, but the wicked glint in the green eyes undercut the apology. "Nothing in there but some dust anyway." He added a fake cough for good measure.

"I believe you are needed back at the palace, brother." It wasn't a suggestion; Thor was angry.

"Oh, I checked with mother before we left. We are free all evening." Loki's flippant reply earned him a hand twisted in his lapel.

"You are leaving," Thor growled.

"That's not a good idea," Tony said, forestalling the fight between the men. "We're all been exposed to whatever is in that casket, and we've no idea how communicable it might be. We have to stay here until we understand the danger. Steve, can you and Natasha work on the language? I'm going to see if I can take a sample to evaluate." Opening his pack, Tony took out a couple of his tools. "Don't touch anything, people. Anything else, that is."

Clint called out on his radio. "Parker, get Dr. Danvers. We've got a situation here. Lock down access to the site."

"Yes, sir," Peter came back, a little bit of fear clouding his voice.

"Oh, goody." Clint sank down to sit on the floor, back against the wall. "Anybody got a tablet or something I can watch a movie on? Looks like I've got time. We should seriously consider loading one of those up before we leave."

Bruce settled down beside him. "Indeed."

…

For a quarantine room, it sure beat the ones on base, Steve thought as he looked around the posh suite they'd been given in the palace. A large living space with comfortable couches and chairs, a wonderful view of the cliffs and the sea – he'd love to paint that landscape one day, night falling and casting lengthening shadows across the already dark azure of the water and the mottled grey stone. Another room with a very large bed … Thor's people did everything in Texas size increments, sometimes even bigger … and a table so overladen with food that they'd be hard press to eat it all in a week.

Tony had already taken off his ABU shirt and was relaxing on the large pillows strewn about the functional furniture in his tank top. The room was noticeably warmer, and Steve followed suit, stripping down to his tank as well. Anise/Natasha and Bruce seemed to be more affected than the others; in just his pants, Bruce was sweating, drinking water to cool off. Steve was so glad that Thor had ordered his brother to be isolated by himself; he certainly didn't want to be dealing with that joker in an enclosed situation like this. That Thor had elected to stay was a surprise at first until Steve saw the glances the young prince was throwing Jane's way; been stuck in a room with someone you found attractive wasn't the worst way to spend an evening. And, no, he didn't glance at Clint, thank you very much.

"It's like a virus, sir," Dr. Carol Danvers was saying through the radio. "We don't know yet exactly what's going on, but the reactions so far are an increase in body temperature, heart rate, and respiration along with changes in hormone levels that seem to differ from person to person."

"Bottom line it, Doc." Clint was shifting his shoulders, a sure sign of his unease with the situation.

"Well, Parker has a theory based upon what's been deciphered so far from the casket and the files. I'll let him fill you in on it." Carol's voice was positively gleeful; Steve rolled his eyes when Clint bit his lip to keep from smiling. Put Parker around Carol and she absolutely delighted in giving the kid a hard time.

"Um, yes, sir, well, the sigil on the casket seems to correlate to an Ogham character that would mean life which, if taken in context with the ones on either side of it …" Peter began, stumbling his way through the explanation.

"Just spit it out, Lieutenant." It was nice to have a bit of levity, even if it was at Parker's expense. They all needed.

"We don't think it's lethal, sir, just meant to distract the Gao'uld. From the test results, I think it's kind of like being really drunk or high; it will probably make you lose your inhibitions and act on … um … baser instincts and things." Peter cleared his throat.

"And you know how that feels, do you?" Clint asked, earning a sputter in reply.

"No, sir, I haven't, no … I mean careful monitoring of your condition suggests a similarity to the effects of alcohol on the human body, sir."

"That will do, Parker." Carol took the radio. "Kid's beet red. Better give him a break before he faints." She laughed, and Steve felt tension easing out of his body; Carol wouldn't take a threat lightly. Laughing was a good sign. "I think he's right; this isn't going to kill you, just make for a very interesting evening. I'll be monitoring your vitals if there's any change."

"Roger that," Clint signed off. "Well, you hear her people. Looks like we're in for the long haul. Better get comfortable."

That was harder than it sounded; despite the many pillows and places to sit or lounge, the tantalizing fruits and sweets and other food stuffs, Steve was uneasy in his own skin, too overheated and sensitive to every brush of fabric or accidental touch as he moved, trying to find a position so he could settle down and relax. The edges of his brain were getting fuzzy, like a fog rolling in; he'd much rather have a bottle of Jack Daniels to get drunk on that be waiting for the dust to do whatever it was going to do. His fingers felt just the slightest bit numb, and he found his gaze wandering over the group assembled in the room. Anise/Natasha had pulled her hair up off her neck – wet tendrils stuck to her skin – and she was smiling, emotions not hidden behind the stoic façade he'd come to know. Listening intently, she tilted her head and her profile caught the light from the lamp behind her, throwing half her face into shadowy relief, and Steve realized with a start just how beautiful she was, classic features centered by gorgeous green eyes and a luscious red bow of a mouth. Her attention was squarely on something Thor was saying; he wasn't as affected as those with symbiotes, but he had cast aside his own shirt already, completely at ease with his bare chest that boasted rippling muscles, and Steve lost a good few minutes watching the shifts as Thor leaned forward to reach for a platter of peach-colored fruit that he offered to both Anise/Natasha and Jane. The physicist was rosy cheeked, brown hair beginning to curl around her face, the same black uniform tank the others wore filled out in a much more enticing way, the curve of her breasts visible as the cotton sagged in the middle. A bite of the fruit and juice dribbled down her fingers; she laughed, her eyes sparkling and pushed away Thor's hand as he snagged the half-eaten piece, her eyes turning dark as he wiped off the sticky mess. Bruce was beside her, and he was not his usual calm self; his knee was jiggling at a fast pace, hands rubbing along his thighs, his normal stillness replaced by perspiring brow and short breaths. The dust was affecting him and Steve could see Bruce's strength as he tried to hold it together, such willpower normally kept quiet, now roiled with surface tension.

Next to Bruce was Tony, hair spikey from running his hands through it, tiny beads of sweat making the dark brown locks glisten, tank pulled out of his waistband and loose, shoes already off and chair leaned back on two legs, rocking lightly as he watched the proceedings with the infinitely dark eyes. The drinker of the group, Tony seemed the most relaxed, probably running calculations in his head for some new project; he was usually at his best after a fifth of whiskey, and whatever was running through his system, to Tony it would be just a really good buzz. Steve's eyes slid down to Tony's mouth as he sipped from his glass and licked a drop from the corner of his lips with his tongue, and a wave of heat rushed up from Steve's toes, through his chest, exploded into his head. The phantom feel of Tony's lips on his sent shivers up his spine, like walking into a cold room on a very hot day; Steve remembered the way Tony's eyes widened when he was aroused, how Tony's hands would grip his hips with bruising precision, how Tony chanted a string of curses as Steve thrust ….

"You're quiet," Clint said in Steve's ear. "Always scares me when you're not chattering away about the past or art or ancient cultures."

Steve looked around and a woozy rush engulfed his head; Clint's face swam then popped back into crisp focus. The bluest eyes … green shot through the iris shifting to grey as Clint tilted his head … gazed curiously, more than a five o'clock shadow speckling his jawline; all thoughts fled in the face of Clint's sideways grin, the one that meant he was joking, at ease enough to let his guard down with someone, a smile Steve treasured when it was turned to him. The ripples of desire grew stronger, rolling through him, burning out any logical thought in flash after flash of need. Then he knew what the dust was, what it did, and how it worked.

"Sex pollen." Steve's mouth ran away from him; he seemed to have no control over what came pouring out. Okay, he talked when he was nervous. Or drunk. Or high. And, yeah, he'd been all of those things despite what Tony might think.

"What the hell?" Tony dropped his chair down on the floor and then laughed. "Of course! Been wondering when we'd run across something like that. Can't travel across the universe without every sci-fi cliché, can we? Alrighty then. Clothes optional and just for the record, I am more than willing to participate."

"Wait, wait, what?" Clint seemed confused. "Sex dust?"

"Heart rate, hormone levels, intoxication, blood pressure … all signs of arousal. Not to mention body temperatures and sensitivity. We're all feeling it by now. Actually, it's not completely unheard of in Earth history; some cultures actually use similar types of drugs to facilitate various fertility rites as a way to encourage propagation of the species and transcendence release. Enthoegens are controversial now, but had some wide acceptance …" Steve started talking, hoping to tamp down on the increasing pressure in his pants that was demanding he do something, anything to alleviate the ache.

"Steve," Clint tried to interrupt.

"… among some ancient tribes. Often used in coming of age rituals when young men had their first sexual experience; sort of a Viagra to encourage them to learn to control their urges. They were ingenious really; a way to keep the Goa'uld occupied with a biological imperative to copulate; meanwhile, they could do some serious damage, infiltrate ships, storm facilities, penetrate defenses, be in and out before they knew it." All the options were running through Steve's mind and he was unable to stop himself from speaking what was in his head, all inhibitions slipping away.

"That's not helping, Steve," Clint warned.

"The Atoneeks must have joined with the humans of this planet to release them from the Gao'uld hold …"

Clint grabbed the scoop of Steve's shirt and yanked him forward. "Shut up, Daniel," he growled before he crashed his lips down onto Steve's and kissed him as if their lives depended upon it.


	6. Window of Opportunity

Clint's lips were demanding and Steve couldn't think of any reason not to open his mouth to Clint's tongue, letting it sweep inside. Nothing mattered but the slide of soft skin as Clint changed positions, tilted his head for better contact, calloused fingers winding around Steve's neck to hold him in place as Clint explored. Steve wanted to pull away, be the voice of reason, but the heat settled in his gut and all he knew was the growing desire to feel more than just Clint's mouth.

"No." One word, determined and low, filled with anger; Clint was pulled away, Bruce's hand twisted in the cotton of the tank, dragging Clint out of the chair and onto his feet. Eyes glowing, skin mottled with green patches, Bruce's breath came in big huffs. "Cupid mine."

"Bruce, everything's okay. We're just …" Steve pushed back, stood up and the others followed suit, coming around the table to stand behind him. This was what they had worried about, Bruce's symbiote taking over; the dust was disturbing it, maybe changing Bruce.

"No! Mine." His voice rattled the plates on the table as Bruce seemed to grow bigger, his rage vibrating along the very floor. He started towards Steve, a growl deep in his throat. Okay, that was interesting. The glowing eyes, yeah, but body changes? What the hell was going on?

"Whoa there, big guy," Clint held his hands out, trying to calm Bruce. "There's nothing to worry about. It's this damn dust …." Not stopping, Bruce's chest bumped into Clint's hands, flesh connecting, and a shockwave spread through the room, rolling over all of them; Steve swore he saw tendrils of lightning dance between Clint and Bruce as palms flattened over muscles. Someone moaned behind Steve, the sound raw and needy; Bruce yanked Clint up against his body and into a heated kiss. Hands moved and tugged, shirts flying off in such haste that seams ripped and elbows bumped. A tide of lust spread out and engulfed them all; Steve's cock went from aroused to stiff as a board in the seconds it took for Bruce to get his hand down the back of Clint's pants, revealing an expanse of tanned, taut back and ass.

"Well, fuck," Tony said. "That's downright beautiful, and so hot I think I might spontaneously combust."

"Tony." Steve turned to roll his eyes at the man's outrageousness only to find Tony was literally right beside him, within a hand's touch, his eyes blown wide with desire, tongue licking his bottom lip. Steve swore he could smell a unique scent of spice and cedar and sweat and alcohol, one that fired every synapse in his body. His hand lifted on its own accord.

"Tony?" This time it was a question as Steve struggled to clear his head, to reach for something that was just at the edges of his memory. Fingertips brushed the smooth skin of Tony's chest above the scoop of his tank, circling the arc reactor that wasn't there, and the crackle of static electricity popped so loud Natasha jumped. What felt like fire flashed up Steve's arm, burning its way into his thoughts, leaving only a raw blackened need; Tony met him halfway, teeth clicking as their mouths crashed together, not so much a kiss as a consuming desire to crawl inside each other and never come out. Choppy and quick, their touches were like a kind of sparring to see who was the strongest, and Tony won the first round, trapping Steve's arms at his side and sucking his way down Steve's neck, biting and nipping, leaving a trail of bruises in his wake. Not that Steve fought much; the jolts from Tony's kisses were live wires touching his skin, making him burn even hotter.

A loud moan caught his attention, and Steve opened his eyes as Tony licked along his collarbone. To Steve's left, Thor was seated in a chair, a lap full of Jane, his big hands cupping her as she rocked, strap of her tank in his teeth as he pulled it off her shoulder. The sound, however, had come from his right, and Steve's cock tightened even more painfully when he turned his head; nude body arched, cock hard and jutting forward, Clint's head rested on Bruce's shoulder. Cradling Clint from behind, Bruce had an arm wrapped around Clint's chest for support as his other hand stroked Clint, wringing curses and gasps of pleasure. Clint's face was twisted in ecstasy, and he jerked his hips in time with the strokes, obviously close to the edge.

"Well, fuck me," Tony murmured against Steve's skin, his hand skating down to tug on Steve's belt. "They're ahead of us."

"Not a … fuck … goddamn competition … fuck … Stark … oh god." Clint cried out and bowed his spine as he came, accompanied by a satisfied growl from Bruce. Steve had to rip his eyes away from the scene or he was going to follow Clint even though his own cock was untouched and still in his pants.

"Clothes off. Now." Tony began ripping and clawing at Steve who was only too happy to help strip them both down in a few movements as possible.

"Wait, we don't have anything." Despite the blur of his brain, Steve had a moment to think about the mechanics of sex.

"Backpacks. Vaseline. We've all got packets." Tony darted to where their gear was stowed, opening pockets and digging out as many as he could find. He tossed some towards Clint and Bruce and kept searching. Kicking off his boots and pants, Steve caught sight of Natasha; she was hugging herself tightly, shaking violently, her eyes unfocused and pupils wide.

"Natasha," Steve called to her in a soft voice.

"I can't. You're my team; I'm not going to mess this up." Her voice trembled with repressed longing; she was carefully not looking at Clint and Bruce, keeping her gaze on Steve.

Knowing Tony would be okay, Steve held out a hand. "Come on, Tasha. You're welcome."

She hesitated a moment longer, then she shed her jacket and kicked out of her pants with the fluid grace of a dancer, slipping her hand into Steve's. It wasn't the same as when he touched Tony; Natasha was like sinking into a hot bath, warmth slowly easing up his arm, adding fuel to the already roaring fire. He started to tug her in, but she moved with a blur, twisting his arm behind his back and pushing towards the nearest couch, much to Tony's delighted chuckles.

"Oh, did I forget to tell you I like it rough?" She whispered into his ear. "That a problem, Cap?" The name slipped out but Steve didn't catch it before it floated away into the sexual haze that was building. He certainly had no issues with a very sexy woman pressed up against his back, forcing him onto his knees, nudging his legs apart; all he could do was groan as she came around in front of him, all naked curves and damp skin, red curls between her legs and firm breasts.

"Want to flip for it?" Tony's hands skittered along Steve's spine and roiled his thoughts even further as he felt the tip of Tony's cock rub a line in the small of back. "Or shall I just say lady's choice?"

"Oh, I know what I want." She kissed Steve; her lips were softer than Tony's had been and yet just as commanding, maneuvering him until he was lying on the soft cushions; he busied his hands with her breasts, thumbs skimming over her nipples, making her gasp into his mouth. Down his neck, across his chest, she peppered the smooth skin with kisses and bites, tasting the valleys between muscles, working her way to her objective. When she settled between his spread legs, her look was scorching as she licked a stripe up the underside of his cock.

"Damn, Steve," Tony murmured. "I'm going to have to completely change my list of the hottest things ever. Clint and Bruce, and now this? Fuck."

"Get your ass over here," Steve groaned, the wet heat of Natasha's mouth circling and taking him in. "You're not getting out of this."

"Tell me I'm dreaming, 'cause this is the best one yet." Tony shifted, straddling Steve's head; without hesitation, Steve tilted his head back, opened his mouth and swallowed Tony's cock all the way down until it bumped the back of his throat. "Oh, shit, fuck, damn it all to hell, that's good, Steve, so fucking good."

The slide and pull along Tony's cock only stoked the fire in Steve's gut, and Natasha's mouth was driving him crazy as she alternated between suction and swirling tongue; he was too ready to last very long, the dust burning its way through his system. They were all in the same boat; only a few thrusts into Steve's mouth and Tony tightened up, crying out as he came. That pushed Steve over the edge; Natasha milked him through his own climax as he rode the wave of release.

Tony flopped back onto the couch, breathing heavily, cock still very erect and flushed, just as a crash drew Steve's attention,. Platters went flying from the table as Thor hoisted Jane onto the surface, leaning over her on his powerful arms, driving into her with steady and strong thrusts, muscles in his ass clenching with each one. Now that he was aware of the room, Steve could hear Clint's string of creative cussing; turning his head, the sight knocked the breath out of his body. Clint was lying face down on the pile of pillows, one caught up in his arms, his head pressed to the side, eyes closed, sweat beaded across his brow; over him, Bruce had his hands wrapped around Clint's waist, forcing Clint's stomach down onto the floor, making his back curve and his ass arch up to meet the slow and even thrusts as Bruce plunged in and pulled back out. Trying to wiggle, Clint begged for Bruce to move faster to no avail; as Steve watched, Clint bucked, coming with a loud groan that turned Bruce's name into a guttural sound. Bruce kept his rhythm, holding back his own climax to wind Clint up again, stopping fully inside to bend down and kiss Clint's shoulder before starting back.

"Oh, hell, someone needs to fuck me. Preferably now." Tony's voice was almost a whine as he shifted, stroking himself. "What's that commercial? If you have an erection lasting more than four hours? That's at least two for Clint with no sign of stopping."

"They don't know about sex dust." Natasha crawled over to Tony, straddling him and running her hands up into his hair. "Going to put up or shut up, Stark?"

"Thought you'd prefer to kill me in my sleep." They changed positions, Natasha resting on her back as Tony leaned over her. "Not to brag, but I like being on top."

"Actually, Tony," Steve got himself upright and grabbed a packet of gel. "We're thinking the middle." Without any warning, Steve breached Tony with two slick fingers, pressing in deep. "Go on. Fuck her hard; I intend to do the same to you."

"Damn, I'm just throwing that list out. Talk dirty to me, Steve." Tony dragged his beard across Natasha's skin, leaving a swath of red marks behind. "You did say rough, didn't you?"

She nodded, lifted her head and sucked on Tony's lip, biting down; Steve could feel Tony flinch as her nails dug into his shoulders, the tremor making Tony clench around his fingers. The craving began to drive Steve again; the first orgasm hadn't relieved it, just given them a momentary reprieve. Rotating his fingers, he added a third as Tony sucked in one of Natasha's nipples and dipped his hand between her legs, only a light caress needed before she cried out her own pleasure, keyed up from earlier.

"Come on, Stark. I'm not going to break," she challenged, and Tony couldn't resist, not that Steve wanted him to. Smooth and fast, Tony sheathed himself inside of her, thrusting all the way in.

"God, you're so hot and wet," he groaned, then jerked his hips as Steve found the right spot.

"Stay there," Steve commanded, taking his fingers out and slicking up his cock.

"Aye, aye, Captain," Tony shot back. "Holy fuck," he breathed as Steve slid home inside of him. "Damn, that is intense."

"Going to have to move sometime, Stark," Natasha's demand was breathy as she worked through the aftereffects of her own hard climax.

"Give me a … second … here," Tony hung his head down and gulped in a deep breath. "Got to figure out how …"

Steve moved, digging his hands into Tony's hips and pulling Tony with him as he withdrew; slamming back in, Steve drove Tony into Natasha with one powerful plunge and Natasha let out a scream of another orgasm that people in the hallway surely heard.

"You okay?" Steve asked, concerned.

"Don't you fucking stop, Steve Rogers, or I'll kill you myself," she ordered through the little sobs that shook her. "If I come on each one, I'm going to give you two fucking medals when we're done." All signs of Anise were gone; Natasha was in the driver's seat it seemed.

"Yes, ma'am," Steve grinned and did it again, this time making Tony cry out at the same time as Natasha. Again and again, he thrust until Tony got the right rhythm and began adding his own snap just after Steve pounded into him, each one wringing cries and groans and moans from them all as they built to a height that Steve had never even imagined possible. Muscles strained, bodies clenched tight, sweat ran and pooled in indentations, hair soaking wet by the time they tumbled down the other side with the loudest scream yet, a mixture of all of their voices as they came within seconds of each other. Tony started to collapse on Natasha, but Steve tugged him back and they fell into a heap together, vaguely upright.

"Well, hell, that was …" Tony ran out of words and Steve gave a low laugh at the thought of Tony Stark speechless. A groan came from the floor; Bruce was sprawled on his back, rock hard cock jutting up from the dark curly hair, his chest heaving as he tried to recover. Clint was boneless, an arm thrown across Bruce's chest, face buried in the pillow.

"Damn it all to hell, this is going away eventually, right? Really don't want to go back to the SGC with this wood," Clint complained. "Might be a little awkward in the infirmary. Plus, those beds roll. They're dangerous."

"And you know that from experience?" Tony needled; the only reply was a satisfied smile on Clint's face.

"I feel a little better now, so maybe it's wearing off?" Jane offered from where she was slumped along Thor's chest as they sat in a chair. Thor ran a casual hand down Jane's back and she shivered and moaned. "Nope. Still there. Sorry." She wove her fingers into Thor's long blonde hair and pulled his head down towards her, rubbing her cheek against his stubble. Watching her, Steve's cock twitched with interest despite just having two of the most earth shaking orgasms he'd ever experienced.

"Come on now, this is a kind of opportunity," Natasha announced.

"What?" Clint raised his head, total bed head as his hair stood up at all different angles.

"We're not ourselves now, right? This is one big dream. Think about it, I mean, if you know in advance that everything is going to go back to the way it was when you wake up then you could do anything you want to without having to worry about any consequences," Natasha explained from her place on the couch, her arm thrown over her head and leg dangling off the side.

Everyone let that digest for a few seconds thinking through the implications, the value of the 'alien sex pollen made me do it' excuse. Possibilities, unspoken desire, fantasies were untethered in the blink of an eye.

"Excuse me." Tony was the first to push up off the couch, wobbly for a second then crossing the short distance to Bruce and Clint. Easing down, he nudged a thigh between Bruce's legs and planted his hands on either side of Bruce's head. "Care to join me?" he asked to the room in general, but made specific eye contact with Steve before his head dipped and lips skimmed Bruce's mouth.

Just like that, the pollen wasn't done with them yet and the fire rekindled a slower burn this time. Steve rose and followed Tony, lowering himself over Clint, knees on either side of Clint's hips; he started at the base of the neck, the curvature of Clint's spine, and sucked lightly on each knob as he worked his way down, drawing lines with his fingers as he spread his hands out. All the while, he watched Tony kissing Bruce, slow and methodical, licking along the edges then gliding inside to tangle and taste; their rigid cocks rubbed together, and Bruce arched up his hips for better contact.

When he reached the arch of Clint's lower back, Steve let his fingers continue into the cleft between, grazing over Clint's already slicked and wet hole; a series of tremors shivered along Clint's skin, and he turned an intense look at Steve. "You can say no." Steve gave Clint the choice, even though his body was pretty much chanting for him to do it with each throb of his heartbeat.

"Hell, yes," Clint lifted up on his elbows. "Bruce?"

"I'm okay. Back in control, I think, so yeah, I'm up for pretty much anything. Dream big, right?" His mouth was free to answer because Tony had moved to his neck, leaving big hickey marks on skin, running a hand through the dark hair on Bruce's chest.

"Well, there are already two of you in there, and Clint makes three, so what's another, eh?" Tony wiggled his eyebrows, his hand curling around Bruce's cock and squeezing lightly.

"Tony." Steve still couldn't believe how inappropriate Tony could be at times. "Not something you say out loud."

"Um, orgy. Naked bodies. Lots of sex. When the hell else can you say it?" Tony's fingers were tracing patterns on Bruce's sensitive shaft, twisting and twirling. Steve only shook his head, but was immediately distracted when Clint lifted his ass and ground into Steve's hand.

"Ignore Tony. I always do," Clint laughed. "Got more important things to do now, Cap."

There it was again. Steve was an archeologist, not a Captain, not even military. Why did everyone keep calling him Cap?

"Oh, fuck," Bruce groaned; Tony had slicked up his fingers and pressed one inside Bruce. The pleasured sounds from both of them distracted Steve, and he was burning hot again; he slipped his arm under Clint's hips, intentionally stroking the head of Clint's cock as he did, and lifted Clint onto his knees.

Bending down to kiss Clint's neck, Steve spoke right into his ear, "Not going to need any prep. You're still loose and wet from Bruce." And then he drove into the tight heat. When he was as far as he could go, he used his strength to sit up, taking Clint with him, holding Clint still with a powerful arm. The angle forced his cock even deeper, and Clint cried out as Steve settled right against his prostate; each little movement or shift of his body earned another groan and shiver. The position allowed them to watch Tony and Bruce as well as letting Steve's hands have easy access to Clint's erection to tease and torment. Their height difference put Steve's mouth right at Clint's neck and he didn't deny the temptation to kiss the expanse of skin before him.

"They're watching us Bruce," Tony said as he twisted the three fingers he had inside Bruce then pulled them out. "Shall we show them how it's done?"

"He's a mouthy bottom too, Bruce. Put him on top, and there's only one way to shut him up," Steve offered and Bruce's glazed eyes turned their way.

"God, Clint, you are so damn hot, I can't wait to …." Bruce's words ended as Tony lined up and pushed inside, hooking one of Bruce's knees over his shoulder and bending forward. "Fuck," Bruce lengthened the word as he exhaled.

"I should tell you, I not a fan of slow and easy," Tony warned, backing up his words, moving quickly from shallow thrusts to plunges that picked up speed until he was slamming in with force, shaking both of them. Respite from the demands of the dust was over and they were running at full tilt towards another climax; Steve could feel the change in his own body, muscles clenching to hold back the need to pound into Clint like Tony was doing to Bruce. Steve had plans and waiting this out was necessary; Clint on the other hand began to roll his hips in circles, bouncing up and down, just a small movement, but it was enough to make Steve grit his teeth.

"Stop that. What I have in mind is better, I promise," Steve ordered, the command tumbling off his tongue easily.

"Not very good at following orders, sir," Clint rolled his hips again and laughed when he got a curse out of Steve, who didn't have time to wonder why the Colonel was calling him sir.

They were gorgeous, Steve thought, entranced by the two men, his friends; the way Bruce jutted his chin forward, elongating the line of his neck, tendons straining or how Tony's sinewy arms stretched and retracted as he moved. Then Tony thrust one last time, coming hard enough to make him sag down over Bruce's knees and struggle to draw a breath. Scooting back, Tony flopped down onto a pillow. "Okay, officially going to be sore tomorrow." He eyed Steve. "But I think I have at least one more go at it in me."

Without another word, Steve eased Clint back down onto his hands and knees, somehow keeping them connected as he did; he gave a shallow thrust and Clint responded, all too ready.

"Bruce? Think you can …" That was all Steve needed to say; Bruce rolled up onto his from the floor and moved, giving Clint a loving smile, stroking the spiky brown hair as Clint took Bruce's aching cock in his mouth.

"One fantasy left." Tony was behind Steve, his hands trailing down the expanse of Steve's back, cupping his ass and squeezing as he went rigid to hold himself steady inside Clint. "Is this something you want?"

"Yes. Only you." Steve knew exactly what he was saying, what he was admitting. In the midst of all the sensations, the most amazing sexual experience of his life, Steve wanted Tony to be the one. It was more important than he could say that it be Tony, only Tony and …

The first finger was foreign and welcome at the same time, but there was no pain or discomfort. Maybe it was the dust or the dreamlike quality or the complete lack of inhibitions, but he was quickly ready for more and the sound of Tony's satisfied sighs made him pull out of Clint and push back in to hear the hitch in both of their voices at the same time; as always Tony kept up a running monologue, telling Steve how good he felt, how damn sexy he looked. It didn't take long until Steve felt the breach as Tony eased in, held on as Tony seated himself and shimmied to get into the right position before he gave a tentative shallow thrust. As if there was a part of him that had been missing without his knowledge, Tony filled him in a way that Steve didn't have the leisure to contemplate; now with Clint moving his hips and Tony behind him, Steve was caught up in the moment. Then it was thrust and retreat, bodies moving together, falling into a rhythm; Clint shuddered and Steve groaned as he was rocked back and forth. Leaning forward, Steve caught Bruce's neck with a hand, dragging him in for a series of hot kisses, all of them joined for the moment in the most intimate of ways. Steve knew the second that Jane's mouth wrapped around Clint's cock from the way Clint's passage clamped tight, the pressure on Steve's cock almost making him come; he stopped kissing Bruce and tightened his hands on Clint's hips, slowing down his thrusts, breathing through each one to delay his climax. Tony matched his speed; despite his earlier declaration, Tony did know how to take his time … somehow Steve knew that.

Jane was on her back, body stretched away at an angle to Clint, and Natasha stopped to kiss both Bruce and Steve, brushing a hand along Clint's spine and whispering into his ear before she dropped to her knees, parted Jane's legs and licked her clit. Just as Thor knelt behind Natasha, Tony wrapped his arms around Steve and grabbed onto Clint's hips, increasing the speed of their thrusts.

"Time to quit dawdling and watching and get on with it." Tony said, and Steve had to agree with him. The heat was back, dust revving up his need; he shut down his brain and let the little things filter through, his artist's sensibility taking in the scene. Bruce's fingers splayed across the back of Clint's head, threaded into his hair and resting lightly on the nape of his neck, tightening and releasing. Tony's mustache tickling Steve's shoulder, warm breath grazing his skin, forearms brushing along his sides. Natasha's laugh that turned into a groan, Thor's tanned hands on her fair skin, bright red curls clinging to her forehead and face; she caught her lower lip between her teeth, worrying it back and forth as she worked her fingers into Jane, intense concentration at her task like always.

The headlong rush began, and it was only a matter of time until the chain reaction happened, the only question who would be first. Bruce's hips stuttered first and broke as he came in fits and starts, Clint working him through it. That sent Clint over the edge with a shout of his own, Jane's hand finishing him off. Clint's aftershocks drove Steve to the end and he plunged two more times, coming with a loud groan into Clint's tight head; when he was done, Clint slipped away, exhausted, freeing Steve, and Tony pushed Steve down on his hands, took hold of Steve's hips, and increased the speed of his thrusts. Steve's teeth rattled as he scrabbled to stay up, the intense waves of pleasure shattering into his brain, Tony's force scooting them along the floor; he lost the battle and lay down, and Tony's body covered his, his mouth rained kisses across Steve's neck. Steve could hear Jane and Natasha and Thor's panting, the slap of skin, but his awareness shrank to the push of Tony's cock, the retreat that left him wanting, the hands holding him down, and the impact that shook his whole body. Tony called Steve's name as he slammed in one last time, straining and emptying himself into Steve. They slumped down together onto the pillows, Tony a heavy weight on Steve's back.

After the last hours of being overheated, goose bumps rose on Steve's arms and he shivered slightly. It took a few seconds before Steve realized his head was feeling clearer and there was no aching need in his crotch. Looking around, he saw everyone collapsed, exhausted and lethargic; Clint's head was on Bruce's thigh, and Jane and Natasha's heads on Thor's chest.

"Wait. There's something I need to do." Clint dragged himself up and crawled over to where Jane was laying; curling his hand around her neck, he licked her mouth open and gave her a deep kiss. "You, Dr. Foster, are amazing and have a damn fine mouth."

She blushed and ducked her head at the compliment. "I just thought, what would Darcy do? Then I did it. You're not half bad yourself there, Barton." She snuggled back up against Thor, rubbing her arms to warm them.

"Okay people, who has the energy to go get our clothes?" Tony wiggled and wrapped his arms securely around Steve. Groans and complaints greeted the question. "Well then, Thor, reach those long arms and grab those throws on the couch. There's only one answer: puppy pile. Everyone snag a pillow and pile on."

There was actually some laughing as they arranged themselves; Steve was impressed with the way Tony got them through the awkward 'what did we just do' stage and right on into the 'let's get warm' cuddle stage … and maybe he didn't want to know where Tony learned how to do that. Thor ended up with Jane plastered to his side, Natasha used Clint's back as a pillow, and Clint was wrapped around Bruce like a clinging vine. Tony waded right into the middle and tangled his legs with the others, pulling Steve with him. Somehow, Steve ended up with his head on Bruce's other shoulder, facing Clint, his body angled so he was touching at least three other people, Tony curled with his head resting on Steve's waist. Packed tightly, the two throws covered their feet and legs, body heat doing its magic to keep them all comfortable as they faded out, bodies needing to recoup the energy lost to the dust's effects.

"I knew nuclear fusion was useful." Clint's voice was a little slurred and slow with tiredness. "Turns out, it was good for something after all."

"Fission." Tony corrected.

"Fusion, Fission, whatever." Clint was drifting off, but he could use his knee to nudge Tony.

"Fission equals nice clean power. Fusion you get gamma radiation and nukes. Big difference." Tony argued back, then yawned wide enough to split his face.

"Doesn't matter. We didn't even get to touring the power plant, got distracted by sex pollen." Jane rolled completely on top of Thor's body, tucking the throw around her more tightly and immediately dropped into a light sleep.

Steve looked at Clint through half-open eyes. "You're not Jack. I'm not Daniel." That made sense now, but there was more, hovering just beyond the fatigue that was claiming his consciousness.

"No I'm not, Cap. I'm just me."

…..

"_Well, well, who'd have thought that you'd be the kinky one of the bunch?" Gabe was all smiles now, happy with the way things had turned out. He'd have never guessed that Steve Rogers, wholesome spangled Captain America, would not only go for the sex pollen cliché, but would be an active participant. Of all the times he'd done this, Gabe had to This wasn't Melrose Place, Gabe decided, it was frickin' _True Blood_ or _Game of Thrones.

_It was time to move on, though; they were still figuring it out way too quick. With a blink, he was back in the dark bedroom where the two men were sleeping, one wrapped tight around the other, bodies responding to the dream. Maybe Barton would be easier to manipulate, no super metabolism or big green wakeup call or Wiley Coyote super genius to give him an edge. Just plain old vanilla human that could shoot a bow pretty good … the real Robin Hood had been a decent shot as well, if Gabe remembered right. Yes, Clint Barton would do the trick. _

_He snapped his fingers and the world changed one more time._


	7. Cup O' Tea, Almost Got Shagged

"And now we have our final lot, gentlemen, the highlight of the evening. Perfectly trained, they belonged to a leader of Charleston's society. As a pair, they can run your whole household, oversee your affairs – of any type – and deal with your social needs. Item number 28 is a male, approximate age 28-30, in excellent health and prime physique, as you can see for yourself. He has served as a gentleman's valet, a horse master and groom, and protected his master during the unfortunate unrest."

Clint kept his head down – never look your master in the eye – hands loose and easy against his outer thighs, palms open, shoulders slightly hunched – don't give any appearance of arrogance - mouth drawn in a neutral line to show no emotions. Years had taught him the lessons of survival, scars that puckered along his skin as reminders of what not to do, wounds no one could see that played nightly in his dreams – Clint had been a slave far too long. One more new master, one more set of rules to learn, more pain to endure … this was what his life was.

"Number 29 is female, competent and prepared well by the famous Red Room with skills almost unheard of here in the States. Her hostess skills are renowned in the city; the mayor, the governor, Whigs and Tories, even the President himself mingles at her parties, as some of you here know from experience. An exquisite item, you'll not find another like her."

In his peripheral vision, he could see Natasha's legs and firmly planted feet; so far she'd resisted the urge to bolt, clinging to the promise their last master had made to see they were taken care of. He'd been the only man Clint had ever trusted, the only one who had treated Clint as a person, who'd seen the promise in the tattered and bruised body that had been shoved onto the public scaffold for his last chance, too many strikes against him. At that moment, starving and shivering, naked and completely exposed, Clint had actually prayed for no one to buy him, to feel the rasp of the scratchy rope around his neck to end his suffering once and for all. Hard to believe, almost twelve years later, how desperate he'd been; the years with Master Coulson had changed all of that.

"There is a reserve bid of 300 gold a piece, ladies and gentlemen, I must remind you, although we have been instructed to offer a reserve of 500 for the pair together. With that, you may make your first bids."

Rustling and whispering, little conferences going on, and a few seconds ticked by before the first voice called out, "I'll open with 350 for the woman."

Natasha would recognize the voices if they'd ever set foot in the Master's house; that was one of her jobs, to listen and pass along what she heard. Slaves made perfect spies; even servants talked freely in front of them, certain that a slave's training would keep them quiet … and if not there was always the whip to shut them up. It had been dangerous, of course, but the Master was just as willing to risk his own life for the cause he believed so passionately in, putting himself in jeopardy as often as he asked Clint or Natasha to do. Ultimately, that was what had gotten him killed, leaving them in this situation; the society ton might believe Phillip J. Coulson had died in a carriage accident during a particularly violent thunderstorm, but Clint knew exactly how the Master had left this world, and the truth of that ate at his very soul.

"400," came the next bid

.

"450," another offered.

Worry clouded his mind for a moment but he shoved it back, needing to be clear headed. If they were separated, Clint wasn't sure what would happen. Natasha already had multiple plans to escape, most of them effective, but the danger was always there. Runaway slaves were not treated well, and with Tasha's skill set, she'd end up in a brothel or worse, only a matter of time until she killed someone and found herself on the short end of a rope. Beyond that fear, if Clint was honest, he knew that he'd fall apart without her nearby; he was still too raw from what had happened, plagued by nightmares and prone to slipping into the empty hole left in his mind.

"500 for both." A new voice, female.

"600 for the male." Heavily accented, European … and Clint's insides froze, every fiber of his being screaming at him to reach a hand out to Natasha to steady himself, but he couldn't give any sign of weakness. It wasn't him, no, couldn't be, but then he'd send someone else, wouldn't he? Too many people knew him in Charleston, too many people were hunting for him. An emissary, then, to steal Clint right from under their noses.

"600 for the female." The first bidder again; the Deep South rang in his voice.

"Lady Danvers, a counter for the pair?" The auctioneer asked.

"600," she replied.

The offers spiraled quickly, for both, for one or the other, prices increasing until a new voice spoke.

"5000 gold for the pair." British with a drawl, half-bored and half-amused. "Contingent on taking possession now."

Murmurs and shifting, some huffs of disgust; a chair scooted across the floor and boots clicked on the hardwood as someone left, slamming the door on the way out.

"The bid is 5000 for the pair." The auctioneer sounded perfectly giddy. "Any one? Going once, going twice … sold to Lord Stark."

…

They had nothing, of course. Slaves were not allowed to own even the smallest possession; everything down to their clothes and their bodies belonged to their owner. Master Coulson had been generous with money, seeing them well dressed for their roles; that was part of the reason his grandfather came to this place, when it was still just British colonies, to help replenish the family coffers. He'd also seen them educated – it was almost unheard of for a slave to read much less know how to write and add sums – and had paid for other kinds of training as well, honing their natural talents. A running joke between them, Coulson had often said he was giving them the key to their freedom, and it had been a risk, especially with the young Natasha, a level of trust that Clint had never known before. He felt a momentary pang at having nothing to remember the man by, not even the smallest trinket, but he did have the refuge of memories if need be. He'd learned that during his short time with that bastard Laufeyson; no matter what he'd been forced to do, he could retreat in his mind into the kitchen of the South Battery Street house and picture the three of them sitting there, late at night, eating a quick meal of cheese and bread, talking about their plans long after guests had left.

"Barton, is it?" Lord Stark hadn't stopped talking the whole time they'd been in the carriage; Clint was good at appearing to not listen while taking in every tidbit of information. He kept his eyes on a spot just below the window in the door, a view that allowed him to catch the changing scenery as well as see the movements of the other occupants of the box. Natasha sat across from him, as still as a statue, speaking only when spoken to like a good slave. Lord Stark lounged, half-slumped on the seat, his top hat thrown casually on the opposite cushion. They'd travelled from the solicitor's office in Martin's Park down Meeting Street and were now turning onto East Battery, not all that far from Master Coulson's home, but worlds away in fashionability. The houses that lined Charleston Harbor were the most expensive and most sought after in town; if Lord Stark resided here, he was more than rich, he was practically royalty.

"Yes, Master." Simple answers. Offer nothing. Lessons learned from past masters.

"I shall brook none of that now. As you are my first, I think Milord will suffice. Or Sir. I assume you know proper forms of address for nobility?"

"Yes, Mast … Milord." Clint added a nod; first slaves, he assumed Lord Stark meant. Tamping down a little spark of hope, Clint reminded himself that things were always worse than they seemed. The mantra had served him well over the years.

"I have heard about the parties of Mr. Coulson. As I intend to make quite a splash here, I hope your reputation is well earned, my dear. If I were to ask you to arrange a welcome party for tomorrow night, something big and brash and very over the top, you could do so?" He addressed the question to Natasha.

"Of course, Milord." Her voice was soft and Clint couldn't get a read on her mood.

"Just like that? No demands or nagging or requests for more time?" Lord Stark laughed. "That's quite scary, do you know? I almost think you could pull it off. Let's say Friday night instead. I'll have to rely upon you to create a guest list, aside from a few friends that I will add. I want Charleston to wake up on Saturday and know exactly who Anthony Stark, Duke of Carbonell is."

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a magnificent example of the Federal Style; Nat sat up straighter and even Clint recognized the home. The Edmunston-Alston house was one of the grand old ladies of Charleston architecture, long elegant porches on each of the three floors , covered and canted to catch the sea breezes blowing off the water just on the other side of the street. He'd even been in the home a number of times when Master Coulson had called, had eaten in the low kitchen house in the back; the cook there made the most amazing fruit tarts. What was Lord Stark doing here? They debarked and Lord Stark headed for the main door, hesitating when Clint and Natasha stopped at the main gate; he raised an eyebrow in question but they stayed quiet.

"What?" Lord Stark seemed confused, and Clint wondered if he truly didn't understand the rules of society.

"If I may, my Lord, I believe slaves are only allowed to enter through the back doorway." A man, dressed in a bright blue jacket, a yellow waistcoat and lace cravat, held the door open; on the short side, his brown hair curled tightly around his head, pulled back with a bright bow; his green eyes took in everything.

"Really? Gods, but this is a terrible system." Turning to Clint and Natasha, Lord Stark spoke. "Alright, around the back and meet me in the drawing room. Jarvis will show you where."

Walking around the side of the house was the first moment they'd had to speak together since the solicitor had come to take them to the auction. "Did you recognize any of the bidders? It was invitation only," Clint asked as they circled the north side.

"Lady Danvers and Dr. Pym. They're friends of Master Coulson. I do not know the European, however." Natasha laid a hand on Clint's arm. "You okay?"

"I could ask the same of you." They turned the corner and the delicious smell of roast beef came from the low slung detached building where smoke rose from the chimney. "At least we'll eat well. Nellie thinks feeding us will make up for the shit."

Jarvis was waiting at the door; he lead them into the house, back a hallway and into a drawing room, one the family clearly used for smaller gatherings. Lord Stark was pouring brandy into a snifter, a cigar ready to light. A number of couches and chairs were arranged into conversation groups, some facing the roaring fire in the fireplace; Lord Stark moved to a leather armchair and sank down in it.

"I assume you can sit if I tell you to?" He eyed them, taking a sip from the glass. "As you can tell, I have no clue what I am supposed to do."

"No, Milord. We may not sit in the presence of our superiors," Clint replied.

"That's damn inconvenient if you ask me. A gentleman never sits in the presence of a lady; of course, I'm no gentleman." Lord Stark grinned and winked at Natasha.

"Tony, you are incorrigible." Steven Alston-Rogers came through the doorway, a fond smile on his face. Unlike Lord Stark who was dressed in the haute mode of Fleet Street, Rogers was wearing a simple yet elegant grey day suit. Clint knew him; Rogers had been at frequent guest at Master Coulson's house, even lingering sometimes afterwards to talk in private. "Whether you agree with it or not, slavery is the custom of the land here."

"You hate it and have said so on many occasions, need I remind you." Cigar aglow, Lord Stark took a long pull and blew out a fragrant cloud of smoke.

"And I'm working to change it, as you know. Now can you stop being Tony for a few minutes? The others should be here shortly." Crossing behind the chair, Rogers rested his hand on the curved back; Lord Stark reached up and brushed the skin lightly. With that one touch, Clint knew these two were more than friends, and it was quite a surprise. Rogers' name had been linked to Margaret Carter from another of Charleston's first families, at least until she had left to spend a season in London. If he preferred men, that would be quite a scandal in the very conservative view of the town and church's leaders. Not that it didn't happen; Clint had long ago learned just how many masters believed that all slaves, male and female, where to be used for their pleasure.

"Lady Danvers and Dr. Pym," Jarvis announced from the doorway, and the two entered, Lady Danver's blonde hair piled high, a jaunty little hat on her head, a lovely burgundy riding dress clinging to her figure. Dr. Pym was less modish, his suit a little older, slightly worn at the elbows, but his cravat tied perfectly. Clint carefully avoided catching their eyes, but still studied the newcomers. He knew them both; they'd been frequent visitors at the South Battery house and they were, he knew, involved with Master Coulson's secret projects. Both Lord Stark and Rogers stood as they entered, heads inclined towards Lady Danvers.

"Carol, you look lovely." Steve kissed her lightly on the proffered hand then shook Dr. Pym's firmly. "Hank."

"Thank goodness, Tony was there. I thought Richards was going to outbid us all. What an ego he has," Carol began, but was interrupted by a young man tumbling into the room, Jarvis on his heels.

"I'm sorry, sir." Jarvis managed to catch the collar of the messy-haired youth. "He slipped by me again. I swear he's crawling on the ceiling."

"That's fine, Jarvis." Lord Stark waved a hand in dismissal. "We'll deal with him." He directed a glare at the youth who had the good grace to flush in embarrassment.

"Forgive my interruption," he said, managing to remember his manners. "I was overly excited to speak to Dr. Pym and Lady Danvers about my latest experiment results." He tugged his slightly too small jacket down; at that age, he was probably growing faster than Lord Stark could keep him in clothes.

"Of course you are, Peter," Rogers patted him on the shoulder. "But we're busy at the moment. Perhaps later?" He turned and tilted his head to ask the others' agreement; Peter looked hopefully over his shoulder, and his eyes landed on Clint and Natasha.

"You bought them!" Peter seemed happy to see them, a strange reaction. "Who had the highest bid?"

"You, young man, should know nothing about that," Rogers glared at Peter and looked back at Tony. "You told him, Tony? You know how dangerous this whole affair is. Bringing your ward into it? We should have talked about this first."

"He found out on his own; you know how he is. Better to bring him in than risk him crashing around in the dark," Lord Stark argued.

"It's probably for the best," Dr. Pym interjected. "Peter has been working on pieces of the evidence anyway. If he knows the whole picture, we might figure it out faster."

"His Highness, Thor Odinson," Jarvis announced, interrupting the discussion. All eyes turned to the doorway and the larger-than-life presence that filled it almost to bursting; blonde hair pulled back and unadorned but with a simple leather thong, the man still commanded attention. He wore a cape … capes were out of style, but he made it work for him … and was clearly neither American nor English.

"Friends! I am glad to see that Tony was successful. I feared we would lose out to the opposition. Now we can finally proceed with our investigation." His voice was forceful and strong … and Clint couldn't stop the involuntary reaction of clenching his hands, nails biting into the tender flesh of his palms. Dropping his eyes to the floor and tilting his head down, he hid his face from the room; Odinson was the man from the auction, the one with the same accent as Laufeyson. A slight movement caught his eye; Natasha was tapping out a message with her fingers on her thigh, the tiniest shifts, an old code they often used. Kitchen … exit to alley … 427 Pitt Street …

"No need to run." That was Rogers speaking directly to them. "No harm is going to come to either of you. Phil made sure of that." He sounded kind and sincere, but they'd heard promises before.

"Indeed," Thor agreed. "I would offer my apologies for my brother's actions and seek to help undo what damage I can. That is why I needs must speak to you about your time with him. There are many truths you may hold to understanding his goals."

Thor asked no direct question, so Clint was free to stay silent and try to weave back together his scattered thoughts. This man was Laufeyson's brother? Clint thought it impossible, knowing what he did about the tall pale prince. Speaking of those days was not something he wanted to do, especially not to these strangers.

"Barton." Lord Stark stopped in front him, his perfectly polished shoes shiny and new; Jarvis obviously knew his job well. "We need to ask you some questions in order to get the bastard who killed Phil."

"Tony. Let's have tea first. I know Nellie made some of her famous lemon cakes. No need to rush; everyone's not here yet." Rogers intervened. "Jarvis, would you and Natasha be so kind as to see what Nellie has prepared?" A separation ploy, Clint knew to split them up.

"Peter, you said something about results?" Dr. Pym said; Peter, surprised, nodded in agreement.

"I'll be glad to show you. It won't take very long. I'm not missing Nellie's cakes." Peter led the way, Pym and Danvers leaving behind him. A silence fell in the room; Clint was used to standing for long periods of time, static and unmoving, but he suspected staying mute wasn't going to work with these men. They knew too much already.

"Barton." Rogers spoke first. "We truly need to know about your time with Laufeyson. To help us find out what he's up to. We all know he's not done."

Clint thought about it; he was sure that Laufeyson still had plans for the city. "I wish I could help you, sir, honestly. But I don't remember anything. Not a single moment."

"Mesmerism," Rogers nodded. "As I suspected. Nothing at all? Images, emotions, snatches?"

"Just fog. And lost days." Clint hated to even think about that time, the overwhelming sense of wrongness.

"We need to find out what happened," Lord Stark said then he sighed. "Look at me, Barton."

"A slave doesn't look at his master, Milord." Keeping his voice neutral, Clint answered the directive.

"How do you get anything done if you can't see?" Lord Stark groused.

"Very efficiently, milord."

Lord Stark did a double take. "Wait, was that a joke? Can you do that?"

"If you wish, milord. A dog and a cat walk into a tavern …" Clint resorted to humor when he was stressed. Master Coulson had often warned him about that habit; of course, Clint had never had anything to joke about before Coulson came into his life.

"Steve! He's human!" Lord Stark turned and clapped the blonde on the back. "I was beginning to wonder."

"You are completely tactless, do you know? Of course he's human." Rogers did not seem amused by Lord Stark's attempt at levity.

"But you still love me." Lord Stark shot back, making Rogers blush.

"Dr. Banner has arrived, sir," Jarvis announced. The man who entered the room wore a tailored understated brown suit, jacket flawlessly cut, finely starched cravat tied in a simple knot. Neither flamboyant nor ostentatious, the clothes were expensive and refined. Brown hair styled and curled, he had a trim moustache and goatee. He absently brushed his hands on his sleeves as if to clean them off; the action caught Clint's attention, familiar in an odd way.

"Ah, Bruce! I didn't expect you until later, but your timing is perfect. This is Barton and he just told us he doesn't remember anything, just as you suspected." Lord Stark ushered the man into the room as Clint focused on his every move. There was something about him that unnerved Clint, made him want to shiver with a chill while heat curled around the bottom of his spine.

"I know what we're up against, Tony." Dr. Banner's voice played on Clint's skin, tingling along his forearms and up his chest. "I can help him remember."

All eyes turned Clint; he stood firm, acting unaffected but he felt the pressure of their regard, a weight on his shoulders. Tiny hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach telling him that events were quickly spiraling out of control.

"We have no time to waste. Barton, Dr. Banner will help you remember," Lord Stark stated; Rogers looked uncomfortable, but said nothing.

"Whatever you wish, Milord." What did they mean, he could help? What was this man a doctor of? Clint had heard of mesmerists – one had even preformed for one of Coulson's parties – but he wasn't sure he believed in them.

"I'll need privacy, just the two of us." Dark eyes turned fully upon Clint.

"Of course. We'll take tea in the main salon, you can remain here." Rogers took hold of Lord Stark's arm when the Englishman acted as if he'd rather stay and watch. They left, shutting the door behind them.

Dr. Banner settled into the armchair near the fireplace and motioned for Clint to take the one opposite. "Sit, please." When Clint remained standing, Dr. Banner sighed. "Sit," he repeated, his voice filled with command. Before Clint even realized it, he sank down in the chair, startled; a deep fear ran through him. He'd heard a voice like that before, telling him what to do, taking away his will. "Listen to me carefully; you will speak freely and tell me everything I need to know." Again with the voice, and Clint winced as he felt the compulsion to tell this man everything.

"I know what you are; you're the same as him." That was the first thing that came out of Clint's now unfettered mouth and he basically spat the last phrase out, his fear just beneath the surface.

"And what is that?" Dr. Banner sat back and crossed his legs, waiting calmly for an answer.

"A Vampire." Clint couldn't believe that just tumbled out, all his training gone in light of this man's magic.

"Actually, I prefer the term vampyre. Laufeyson and I are quite different; he was born this way, both of his parents purebloods." The topic didn't upset the man; he didn't even try to deny it.

"So then his brother is also a ... vampyre?" Clint couldn't stop his thoughts from flying right out of his mouth.

"No. Laufeyson was a foundling; the royal family took him in when he was just a baby. By the time his disease manifested itself, they already saw him as part of their family. Unfortunately, evil is part of his personality; he was into mischief his whole life, graduating to grander schemes as he grew older."

The amount of information surprised Clint; rarely did anyone give knowledge away so freely. "Disease?" he had to ask, interested despite his own reservations about being in the room with another of these monsters.

"Scientists now believe it is a disease of the blood; Laufeyson inherited his. Mine came by way of a scientific experiment gone wrong." He shrugged, but a current of regret ran through his words. "In my most primal form, I would be a danger to everyone around me. So let's just not get angry, shall we? I have no desire to hurt you."

Clint kept his distance, wary and watching. "I don't believe that."

"Of course not. I can only imagine what Loki did to you. The man is a plague." Dr. Banner shifted forward onto the edge of his seat. "I'm going to put you in a light trance and ask you some questions. You'll be awake, and you'll remember everything when we're done. Is that acceptable to you?"

"Does it matter?" Clint asked. He had the impression this man was going to play with his brain no matter what he wanted.

"We don't have the luxury of qualms of conscience. I am not like Laufeyson; I take no joy from causing others pain for no reason." Dr. Banner scooted even closer. "Now, I'm going to put my hands on your thighs – touch strengthens the connection. Then I need you to look me right in the eyes."

Clint couldn't help but look at the long, sinewy fingers as they dropped lightly onto the twill of his pants, each of the ten connection points a pinprick of awareness. Laufeyson's touch had always been ice cold; Dr. Banner's was liquid warmth. Clint's body reacted, stirred, as Dr. Banner flattened his palms. Lifting his head, Clint looked directly into the dark brown eyes, falling into them, sinking deep. He felt calm and at peace, restful even, and a phantom memory, the barest of thoughts, flickered at the edges of his awareness of a similar feeling, hands holding him, chest pressed to his back, breath in his ear.

"Let's ease into this. Tell me what you were doing before Laufeyson took you." That voice was going to appear in his dreams, Clint knew.

"I was the only one at the house. Master Coulson was visiting General Fury, Natasha was off shopping for the party scheduled for the next night with the house boy in tow, and both the cook and the maid had the afternoon off. My job was to read through reports of criminal activity, looking for connections when suddenly Laufeyson was there, just appearing in the room. He demanded to know where Master Coulson was then he looked at me and said, 'you have heart,' pointed his walking cane at my chest and … then nothing." This part he remembered well and had replayed often, wondering if he could have done something differently to change the outcome.

"Very good. Now we'll go a little deeper, push past his mind tricks. This may be disconcerting."

The hands on Clint's legs grew warmer and became anchors as his mind untethered and began to float freely. Like turning a lens on a telescope, hazy images became sharper, not quite in focus, but more easily identifiable. "I helped him arrange meetings with local crime bosses." He squinted to bring the faces in tighter. "Rappacini. Killian. Fisk. Yes, those three. He made deals with them, gave them information and promised them more. But he was lying, playing them off one another. He wanted them to destroy each other, leave the city in a war so he could easily step in."

"And his overall goal?"

He tried, but nothing rose to the surface, just distorted ripples. "I don't know. I didn't ask. He didn't tell me. I was a good slave and did what I was told."

"He probably wouldn't tell you much." Dr. Banner sighed in disappointment and his fingers clenched. "I need to ask you another question. Did Laufeyson take blood from you?"

The images exploded, burning brightly on his retinas as he squeezed his lids shut to avoid the onslaught. Fangs covered in red, dripping, the pain of rending flesh, the agony of the mouth pulling on his veins. Cold knees, wrenched arms, heavy metal manacles, hand bearing down on his shoulder, the absolute white hot pain as he …. "No. Please. I don't want to," Clint almost sobbed.

"That son-of-a-bitch." The hands pulled away quickly, and Clint blinked, the memories receding back into the fog. Dr. Banner leaned over him and hands seared as they slipped around Clint's head, cradling his face. "I have to know if he made you his. Do you understand?"

A fragment of a conversation drifted into his head about claiming and marking in Loki's cold, superior voice. Nodding, Clint tried to slow his breathing down; Dr. Banner's left hand slid down Clint's neck, a light brush of fingertips, and Clint's body responded, arousal slamming full force into his crotch. He'd never felt anything like this before; those fingers opened his collar, took off his tie, and dipped to find the still healing scars where his neck curved into his shoulder. Pure lust turned Clint's vision red with need, and he couldn't stop the small moan that escaped his lips. He opened his eyes when he realized they were closed; Dr. Banner was breathing just as heavily, tips of his fangs showing through parted lips, his face flushed.

"Goddamn him, he's an animal," Dr. Banner murmured. "There's no excuse for this. We have to find out the number of times he bit you. Three is needed to mark a human; it creates a connection so he can control you. But the most important question is if he gave you his blood. That's how the infection is passed from person to person." Fingertips massaged Clint's neck, and his world shrank down to those feather light circles and the arousal throbbing between his legs.

When he slipped into the scene, he tried to divorce himself from it, forget the crack of the cane against his skin, the fingernails cutting into his bare flesh, the freezing cold in his bones. Blocking it all out, he listened and let his lips repeat. "You are mine, little Hawk. I will always know where you are and you will never be free of me." He felt the tension on his neck, head tilting sideways, throat smooth and bare, offered up; fissions of anticipations mingled with memories of agony as fingers pushed Clint's shirt off of his shoulder and brown hair grazed his jaw.

"The kiss should never hurt," Dr. Banner said, his lips brushing along the scar Loki left behind. Clint eased his hand down to his aching cock, stroking to relieve the mounting pressure. "It is a gift given and received. The bastard claimed you and there's only one way to break that." A hand joined Clint's and began to unbutton his trousers. "I can smell your arousal. Do you want this?"

"Gods," Clint groaned; fangs scraped twin lines on his throat as Dr. Banner's hand freed Clint's cock and stroked along its silky length. "Yes."

"Good. You are mine," the doctor was practically growling, his eyes glowing as he drew his tongue along the main vein that throbbed in time to Clint's pounding heart. The actual strike was sharp and fast, puncturing skin and sinking in quickly, but pain was swiftly replaced with the most intense pleasure Clint had ever felt. Arching his body, Clint bucked his hips up and wove his fingers into Dr. Banner's curly locks, holding on as the waves of ecstasy flowed into him. Sucking blood in, Dr. Banner's mouth make Clint's cock leak, primed him to explode; warm air ghosted out with the exhale, breathing craving back out. The hand on his cock pumped up and down, stopping to tease his flushed head, then starting again. The intimacy sent Clint's brain reeling, memories flashing too fast to make them out – slow and tender kisses, greedy hands grasping his hips, raining rolling down naked skin, strong arm tight across his chest as they rocked together, a familiar body winding around him, snuggling together, dropping into sleep.

"Bruce," Clint elongated the name, exhaling it like a prayer. Dr. Banner moaned, lips vibrating, a rivulet of blood running down Clint's back; one last pull, and he lifted his mouth away.

"Mine." This time, his voice was almost reverent. Clint was barely balanced on the edge then Bruce dragged his tongue across the open wound, stopping the bleeding and sealing the wound. The rough rasp was his undoing; he jerked and came, a powerful orgasm slamming into his gut. His eyes rolled back in his head and he blacked out ….

… waking up slowly, lids at half-mast, the room darkened by the night filter on the windows. The sheets were wound around them both from where they'd been moving in their sleep; Bruce's head was tucked into the core of Clint's neck, their arms tangled around each other, legs entwined. Clint could make out a figure sitting in the chair where he liked to drape his pants, the glow of a tablet casting a blue wash over the face. Twitching, Bruce moaned and the man looked over; Clint closed his eyes to just a slit, trying to stay awake, but it was impossible, too heavy with sleep, and he sank back under …

… his breathing choppy and uneven; he opened his eyes as Bruce sat back, tongue darting out to lick the last drops of blood from the corner of his mouth. Gazes met, the moment lengthened, and then Clint pushed himself up, dropping to his knees and sliding his hands up Bruce's thighs. Eyes widened in surprise as Clint popped open the buttons and tugged down the flap, freeing Bruce's cock.

"Shall I take care of this for you, Sir?" Clint dipped his head down and blew across the leaking slit. "I am yours to command." To prove his point, he flicked the tip of his tongue across the slit; Bruce gasped and gripped the arms of the chair hard enough for the leather to creak. With long slow licks, Clint covered the whole surface, slicking it up before he nibbled along the base and sucked lightly on the balls.

"Barton … Clint. I …" A groan cut off Bruce's words as Clint sucked the tip in his mouth and pulsed his tongue around it.

"Don't worry. I can handle the Big Guy." He winked and Bruce stared, but then Clint's mouth took Bruce's cock all the way down until his nose was brush wiry hair. Settling in, he worked Bruce, reveling in the feel of him, the taste of him; it didn't take very long … the feeding had aroused Bruce just as much as Clint … and soon Bruce tensed, bit his lip and thrust up one last time before he came. They ended up there on the floor, Clint's head on Bruce's thigh, Bruce collapsed in the chair.

"One bite is not enough to release you," Bruce said, brushing a hand through Clint's hair. "Laufeyson's mark can only be broken if another claims you."

Patting Bruce's knee, Clint got up, tucked himself back in his pants and buttoned up, putting on his best slave face. He inclined his head in agreement. "And you will do that for me?"

"He cannot have you. You are mine." There was a green glitter in Bruce's eyes as he issued what amounted to a challenge.

"Of course, sir. As you wish." Memory flowed across Bruce's face at Clint's words then it was gone when they heard a quiet knock sounded on the door; Jarvis telling them tea was ready. Bruce put himself back together and headed towards the door.

Clinton Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye, an Avenger and long-time agent of SHIELD, followed behind the man he loved. His eyes scanned the salon as they entered, Carol and Hank, Tony and Steve …. who the hell was Peter? … and he gave Natasha a small smile, one that told her all was well. His gaze skated over the other man in the room, the one responsible for all this. It was time wake up and figure out exactly what was going on.

And playing vampire and slave? Well, Clint might not mind it all that much. It was his fantasy after all.


	8. Love isn't Brains, Children, It's Bood

The market was bustling as Clint wound his way through the open air stalls and storefronts, pausing as Natasha stopped to inquire about black-eyed susans for the decorations. The woman was a dynamo; she got more done before 10:00 a.m. that most people did in a whole day. As he watched her haggle with the flower saleslady, he couldn't help but think there was something he was forgetting, something vitally important that he needed to do. Ever since he'd woken up this morning in his new room high up under the eaves, slanted walls and tiny iron bed, the thought had been nagging at him. Natasha had chalked it up to the strangeness of their lives; a new master and people seemingly sympathetic to their plight rang all sorts of alarm bells. Still, Clint hadn't told her everything that had happened with Dr. Banner the night before. Normally, they kept no secrets between them, but the intensity of his reaction to the doctor's "gift" and the lingering aftereffects that still stirred his body and memory made Clint uneasy and unwilling to share. Even just the man's name made his cock pay attention, and Clint had to force himself to not rub his fingers over the twin puncture marks in his neck carefully hidden under his collar, the new ones that Bruce had given him, marking out the older ones from Laufeyson.

He did remember the revelation that there was a conspiracy to keep them in the dark, a web of distraction. Laufeyson was using the crime lords of the city to cause trouble, to hide what he was really up to, and a rock hard certainty that someone in their household was not who they seemed. That was why Clint had let himself be sent along with the group this morning as a man servant and protector of young Master Peter. The kid seemed harmless, a real science type more at home in a lab than a ballroom, but Clint had to be sure. So far, the young man had stopped in a bookstore, dropped off some designs for new equipment at the glassblowers, and eaten two meat rolls, a mini mince pie, and a cream puff. As skinny as he was, Master Peter was always hungry; no wonder Lord Stark had ordered Clint make sure they arrived at the tailor's for a fitting.

"Barton. Who is that?" Master Peter's eyes were captured by a young woman two booths over. Lovely blonde hair neatly pulled back from her perfect face, a mint green poplin morning dress setting off her emerald green eyes, the young miss was buying candy, taking the white paper bag in her white lace gloved hand, laughing at something her companion, an older woman, was saying. Clint gave Master Peter credit; the girl was beautiful and probably way out of Parker's league. Not because of money; as Lord Stark's ward, Master Peter was one of the wealthiest teens in the city. No, the young lady in question was more likely to kick Parker's ass than look at him. It was a matter of self-confidence.

"Miss Gwen Stacy," Barton said.

Master Peter blinked but didn't take his eyes off of the girl. "Oh. Oh. Yeah. Um. Yeah." Clint ducked his head to keep from smiling at the hesitancy in Parker's tone; he sounded as if all his intelligence had flown right out of his head.

The woman in question turned their way and saw them; she smiled and walked over. "Barton. I'm so sorry for the loss of Mister Coulson. I know I will greatly miss him." A glimmer of tears shimmered at the edges of her eyes, her sincerity evident.

"Thank you, Miss Stacy." There wasn't much more Clint could say; her approach alone violated any number of societal rules, but then she had always spoken to them when she visited the house. Strong willed and self-assured, she was a minority among the women of the town. "May I present Master Peter Parker, ward of Lord Anthony Stark, the Duke of Carbonell? Master Peter, this is Miss Gwendolyn Stacy and her aunt Miss Nancy Stacy."

Expectations dictated that Clint perform the introduction; unmarried young women could not speak to unmarried young men until they were formally known to each other and even then only with an adult present. Not that the rules stopped young people from finding ways to be alone; Clint had stumbled upon many illicit trysts in Master Coulson's gardens during parties.

"Ah, yes, I believe you are staying with the Alstons, aren't you? How are you finding our fair city?" Miss Stacy's eyes sparkled, and Master Peter's face flushed red as he tugged at his collar.

"Good, fine, yes, I mean, we are, indeed, it is very hot here." The young man's voice broke slightly and Clint felt a pang of sympathy for the kid.

"Yes, it is warm in Charleston. That's why we do so much in the mornings and evenings. Too hot to stir in the afternoon." She took pity on Parker and helped him out.

"Um, we're, um, having a thing, at the house, Tony, Lord Stark …." Master Peter tried again but got even more hopelessly tangled. "Barton?" He turned terrified eyes on Clint.

"Lord Stark is hosting a ball this Friday. The invitations were posted this morning; I'm sure Master Peter looks forward to seeing you there," Clint provided. There was something endearing about the young man's dilemma; never having a first love or even the luxury of feeling awkward in front of a crush, Clint found himself wondering what it would feel like, to have the freedom to find someone attractive, to circle around them, ask them to dance or take them for a walk or just sit together quietly. A little flare of the old hatred burned.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll be there. Father was just speaking of Lord Stark and wanting to meet him." The look on Miss Stacy's face spoke volumes about what her father really wanted – to check into the background of this new player. Living in a world where most people knew nothing about the dangers that lurked nearby or the monsters that walked the streets beside them, trust was a valuable commodity and had to be earned. Even though he didn't know about the supernatural elements, Commissioner George Stacy took his responsibility to protect the town he served seriously. "You are attached now to the Alstons?"

"Lord Stark is our new master," Natasha said; she'd finished her bargaining and joined them. Miss Stacy cocked her head, studying them both, thoughts flitting across her face, and then smiled again at Master Peter.

"Well, then, I look forward to seeing you there. I expect to save a dance for you, Mister Parker." She turned, took up her aunt's arm and strolled away, throwing one last coquettish look over her shoulder at them.

"I should have said good bye. Why didn't I say good bye?" Master Peter's face fell, and he rubbed a hand over his face.

After what felt like a dozen more stops, Clint finally steered Master Peter to the tailor, circling around to the back entrance after thrusting Parker into the front. Their two tails were still with them, one hanging back on King Street and the other concealing himself further down the alleyway to watch for their exit. All day they'd been followed; when Natasha had separated to go to Hyman's to order the seafood Nellie needed, one of the burly thugs had gone with her, and Clint had smothered a laugh at the thought that one could take down Nat. They were semi-professionals, though; they blended in well with the normal mix of market goers. Only someone trained in subterfuge would spot them. Too bad for them their teacher had been an expert at blending in and finding the things that didn't belong.

Calculating plans as he entered the shop, he found Master Peter distracted by thoughts of Miss Stacy. When they were left alone momentarily in the dressing room to wait for more clothes to appear, Master Peter turned to Clint. "She's out of my league, isn't she? Right, what am I thinking? She's the police commissioner's daughter. I'm just an orphan with too big hands and gangly elbows."

"Miss Stacy is a lovely young woman." Clint wasn't sure what to make of Parker's words. He knew Lord Stark had taken the young man in as a ward, but nothing else.

"Right. Which is why she wouldn't want me. She doesn't know." Peter … and suddenly Clint wanted to call him by his name … sank down onto the duvet. "We were actually ready to be shipped out when Tony found us. That's what they do with paupers, you know. Sell us to pay our debts. My aunt did what she could, but after my uncle died …" He sank into silence for a moment before he continued. "Tony says it won't matter, but he's wrong." Peter looked right at Clint. "That's why I was happy he bought you, saved you like he saved me."

The entrance of the tailor with another armload of material forestalled any response Clint might have made to the revelation. He was fiercely glad that Peter hadn't been sold; it was no life for a smart kid like Parker. At least Clint had been hardened by life with his father and then life on the run with Barney before he ended up on the block. The bruises and broken bones, the tears when Barney abandoned him, they all toughened him and helped him survive those first few masters, the one who like little boys all smooth and wide-eyed innocence, the one who enjoyed raising red welts on tender skin, the one who preferred to watch. A protective instinct rose up in him, fueled by anger; Peter's blush and insecurity was suddenly very precious. Clint was going to be sure the young man got to live the life Lord Stark had gifted him with. No vampires were going to change that.

…

"Barton? Would you come here, please?"

Stopping with his foot on the first stair, Clint saw Rogers come out of the library and motion towards him. He was literally too good to be true; he continued to treat both Clint and Natasha like equals or team members. "Yes, Captain."

"What?" Steve responded, looking confused as Clint entered the room behind him.

"Sorry, sir. I … I knew a Captain Rogers once." An image of man in a blue uniform, a big shield on his arm, and then it was gone, leaving a strong sense of rightness and the beginning of real hope that maybe this wasn't too good of a thing to be true.

Rogers shut the door behind them; Lord Stark was standing with a half-full brandy snifter in his hand. "Tell me Peter got his new suits. The boy would rather blow up something than go shopping."

"Yes, Milord. Two were ready and the other three will arrive by tomorrow morning." Now he was on solid ground; he knew how to answer questions like this. Stick to the facts and be glad things had gone well.

"And he didn't have any trouble? Didn't say do anything … unusual?" Lord Stark seemed worried.

"No, Milord." Clint certainly knew unusual and Master Parker had been nothing but a normal teenage boy. "Nothing unusual."

Exchanging a glance with Rogers, who nodded to him, Lord Stark said, "Barton … Clint … I'm giving you a direct order. You are free to speak to both Steve and me about anything you see or hear that might be important, any rumor, idea, theory you might have. We know Coulson trusted you; you see things we can't. We need you."

Clint thought about it; some inner voice was urging him to tell them everything, that they were worth his confidence. Steve and Tony. That's what he called them. Before. "We met Miss Gwen Stacy in the market. Master Peter seemed quite taken with her. He babbled."

"Commissioner Stacy's daughter? That's trouble. George is a by-the-book man; he knows just enough to be dangerous," Rogers explained. "She is a lovely girl, though. I can see why Peter would be taken by her."

"Babbling is good," Master Stark laughed and sipped his drink. "First girl I had a crush on, I couldn't put two words together. About time, too."

Lord Stark seemed happy, but Rogers was still watching Clint. "And?" he asked.

"We were followed. Three guys; they picked us up here and are stilling watching the house. Natasha is working on finding out who is paying them."

"To be expected. They know you worked for Coulson and are now here." Rogers nodded to Tony, taking the news in stride. "We should make sure that someone is always with Peter when he goes out."

"Peter can take care of himself," Lord Stark asserted, and Clint wondered just what was unusual about the boy, enough that his guardian thought he could handle himself against vampires and their minions. "But you're right, it can't hurt. We should all be careful, especially at night."

"One more thing," Lord Stark turned back to Clint. "Dr. Banner. If you don't feel comfortable, after what happened with Laufeyson, I give you my permission to refuse any of us if you want to. No one can force you. We're not like him."

"Dr. Banner." He started, then stopped. Took a deep breath. Dug deep and laid bare his emotions. Everything he felt, all the anger and hurt and … the desire? "He's different. I'm … I want to be free of Laufeyson."

Steve looked at him a moment longer, as if he could divine the truth, then nodded. "You can change your mind at any time. Bruce is a good man, but he's … not always in control."

There was one more thing he wanted to know; now seemed like the moment to ask, but the conditioning to never speak first was an old habit. "Milord?" he started and then hesitated when Lord Stark's intense eyes narrowed in on him.

"I distinctly remember saying speak freely, did I not? I'm not that drunk yet." The man joked about everything, but there was a seriousness that undercut his words.

"Master Coulson had a workroom and a library, Milord. Some very rare and important things." Slaves might not own anything, but Clint would hate to see Master Coulson's collection fall into the wrong hands. He knew just how much of a lifetime obsession those books and drawings and weapons had been for the man.

"Oh, right, forgot. Bought the whole lot, house and everything. The solicitor was all too happy and gave me a good price." Lord Stark acted as if such and expense wasn't even worth noticing; obviously Rogers didn't know, his face startled.

"Tony. That's …. That's wonderful." Reaching over, he brushed his thumb along Tony's cheek. "I didn't think of that."

"Yeah, well, if I'm going to stay around, we'll need a place anyway and the house has a basement complete with holding cells and a reinforced workroom. Plus the carriage house could easily be converted to a lab …" Lord Stark trailed off at the looks on the other men's faces. "What? I did something right. Occasionally happens."

…

Clint spent a part of the afternoon researching how humans were claimed in some of Master Coulson's books; he wanted to know just how much influence Laufeyson had over him now and what he was trading that in for with Dr. Banner. Buried deep on one of the bottom shelves, he found a diary that talked about the various types of human enslavement by vampires; one story told of a woman who'd actually been married to one of them and had lived a very long life as his wife. To all intents and purposes, it seemed that the human retained a measure of free will and independent thinking. Nothing he found, however, explained the extreme reaction he had to Dr. Banner; in all accounts, bites were described as either severely painful, like an animal's attack, or a slight discomfort and then enjoyable. Even with being compelled, no one used orgasmic terms to explain what they felt. And that bothered Clint. Another loose end, something that didn't fit.

Lord Stark brought both Clint and Natasha when he went out that evening to the theater with friends. Their shadows trailed along with them, and Lord Stark ordered the horseman to not drive too fast 'lest they shake their new friends. Sitting on the rumble, Clint could see them occasionally dart out of one hiding place to move to the next, trying to remain in the shadows all the way to the Broad Street Theatre. The streets were packed with other conveyances, pulling up to drop off their bejeweled and elaborately overdressed passengers. This was the event of the season, Edmund Kean, the greatest Shakespearean actor alive, performing King Lear. Even those who hated plays had to be here to see and be seen. Master Coulson had been looking forward to this; he'd purchased his tickets not long before he died. Those had been floor seats; the Alstons had a royal box, big enough for a large party with a private entrance and an area for slaves and servants. Of course, Lord Stark had to make a scene; he alighted from the carriage and immediately held court, the center of attention of all the mothers with young eligible daughters who smelled an unmarried rich man a mile away. Like a swarm of sharks that sensed blood in the water, both Stark and Parker were engulfed and carried away in seconds, Stark smiling and Parker shooting a terrified look back at Clint as the carriage rolled around the corner and out of sight. The box was busy when Clint and Natasha got there; a line of Charleston's finest flowed steadily through, looking for introductions and angling for a reason to call tomorrow. Poor Peter was pushed into a corner, eyeing a way out of Mrs. Cabell's clutches. A few glances were thrown their way, the gossip mill already at work with rumors about their change of owners.

"Quite the crowd," Dr. Banner spoke from behind Clint. Even Natasha jumped a little; the man moved with an unnatural silence that came from being undead. She'd known what the doctor was last night; her senses were rarely wrong about potential threats. "Everyone wants to see the famous actor, it seems. Or just to check out Tony and Peter." There was laughter in his voice, and Clint couldn't help meeting his eyes, the lure of falling in and staying there almost too much to resist.

The lights dimmed and they took their seats; sometime during the crush, Miss Stacy and her aunt had come by and been invited to sit with them. Clint was sure that little fact was already flying across Broad Street into every Charleston home. Then the play began and he was quickly entranced by the story of a king who split his legacy among his children and the tragedy that followed. Twice he felt Dr. Banner's dark eyes on him, the hair at the nap of his neck standing on end, electrified by the memory of the night before, the slide of the man's hand, the weight of his cock in Clint's mouth, the pull on his mouth on Clint's neck. Sitting so close to the man taxed every bit of patience Clint had; he struggled to not touch the dark haired doctor, only thinking about what he'd like to do. It was a testament to Kean's abilities that Clint followed the action on stage at all.

Afterwards, Lord Stark insisted they all return to the house for dinner and drinks. Shadows pooled around the houses, in the yards, making the street seem dark and dangerous. The carriage driver dropped everyone off at the front door except for Clint and Natasha; Peter and Dr. Banner stayed in the box with Miss Stacy and her aunt as they cut across town to drop the ladies at their home. As they rolled to a stop to make a turn onto a side street, Clint saw the movement, realized the attack was coming before any of the others. The men rushed in, converging on the carriage from three directions.

"Incoming!" Clint shouted at Natasha as he leaped towards one of the men, using his weight to carry the thug down to the ground, pounding on the man's chest the whole way. From the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha take out one quickly; it was Peter who surprised him, moving faster than Clint knew was humanly possible. Bursting from the carriage, he flipped over one of the men and kicked him in the small of his back, knocking him flat. Clint kept swinging as more men appeared, and he saw Bruce emerge from the shadows; with a simple touch, one man dropped to his knees and lost the will to fight.

A stabbing pain in his shoulder and Clint stumbled forward, crying out as the knife was jerked out, slicing even more as it was removed. His vision went white as a hand in his hair pulled his head backwards; glowing eyes and an evil smile seemed to materialize above him in the dark.

"Aren't you a delicious morsel?" He tilted his head and eyed Clint, this creature of the dark. "Daddy will be jealous to know that I got to you first. But then Daddy is so behind the times."

The growl was the only warning; Bruce changed, face distorting, growing larger with each breath. With a leap, he pounced, fangs slashing across the other vampire's throat, blood splattering everywhere as the carotid artery spurted. Natasha stood staring in horror, Peter just behind her. Clint turned in time to see Bruce rip the head right off of the body, hurtling it into the shrubs along the road, blood spattering across his evening clothes. The monster had taken hold. Larger, hulking, Bruce's arms hung by his sides, eyes glowing as he bared his teeth at them all. Clint had seen nothing like it before; the vampires he'd know had never slipped out of their human body, choosing to whisper in ears, seducing, betraying, never showing what lurked beneath their mask. Their primal form, the creature before him, was at once both terrifying and somehow mesmerizing. For, despite all of the unworldliness of the thing before him, Clint could still see Dr. Banner in the eyes, in the face, and in the expressions.

"Nat. Get Peter into the carriage." Clint stepped forward, right into the path of the beast. Brown eyes swiveled to follow his every movement, predatory and demanding.

"Clint. No," she argued.

"I can help," Peter protested.

"Peter, I need you to get the women home safely. Then warn the others. Dr. Banner won't hurt me." He said that with a confidence he shouldn't feel, and yet he knew in his bones it was true. Never taking his eyes off of Bruce's narrowed gaze, Clint sensed the other two leaving, saw Bruce eye's flick to follow their movement, and then the carriage was rolling away. "Okay, big guy. Just you and me. Everyone else is safe."

Dr. Banner … Bruce … the Big Guy … sprang at him, grabbing him by the shoulders; Clint flinched as a face leaned over him, letting out a loud growl, and the big hands pressed against the wound.

"Cupid hurt." Brown eyes glittered green; he lowered his nose and sniffed along Clint's neck, the light brush giving Clint the shivers. "Smell blood."

"We need to get off the street." Clint tried to keep focused, but it was difficult when the fog of arousal was setting in. He should be scared, here at the mercy of the stripped down Id of Dr. Bruce Banner, but he wasn't.

"Yes." Bruce caught Clint effortlessly and darted into an alleyway, down between carriage houses and out buildings until he found a dark and empty one. He pushed through the doors, slamming them shut; he sat Clint down and huffed, pawing at Clint's vest where blood was caking, material sticking to the wound.

"Off. Cupid need help."

Clint managed to get the vest unbuttoned and untie his cravat before Bruce pulled the shirt over his head, ripping the clotted blood away, starting the bleeding anew; crying out, Clint staggered, reaching out to keep himself up right, putting his palm against the stone wall. Bruce threw his head back and howled an eerie cry before he bent down and licked the wound, his fangs scratching along the skin as his mouth sucked at the sticky liquid. Clint groaned; just like , the feel of Bruce's mouth was a narcotic that went straight to Clint's libido, ramping it up until he could think of nothing else, pain receding as his cock stirred and hardened.

"God," Clint moaned, arching his back, bringing his ass against Bruce's crotch. One brush was all it took; Bruce took control, plastering his chest along Clint's back, arm holding Clint tight against him, hand working Clint's belt free and dipping into his pants to free his already aching cock. Breath ghosted along his neck and Clint felt the answering spike of desire centered on the earlier bite, twin beacons of need that made him crazy with desire.

"Not scared of me." It was both a statement and a question. Clint shook his head.

"Never, Big Guy. I'm yours. It's all three of us together."

"Cupid mine." He dragged his tongue across the wound again and again, closing it slowly as the bleeding stopped. Some tiny part of Clint's brain remembered what he'd read about vampire healing abilities, but he damn well didn't care as the raspy sensation moved up the line of the muscle, grazing over the earlier bite marks.

"Is it always like this?" Clint breathed, asking before the last bit of reason fled. "Overwhelming. Out of control." Bruce was changing again, shifting back into his human form; Clint could tell from the size of the fingers that wrapped around his cock.

"No. You are … intoxicating." A chuckle and Bruce's voice dropped back into the silky seductive one that made Clint tremble.

"Bruce. Please. I want you to fuck me." It was all he wanted, all he knew; with every heartbeat he was closer to the fire, and he wanted. Wanted more, wanted all, wanted to be full.

"Not now. Later, I'll take you apart, bit by bit, fuck you for hours, have you spread out beneath me until you've come again and again until you're exhausted and sated beyond anything you've ever known." A fast strike and fangs punctured the skin, driving deep into the exposed flesh of Clint's neck. He stroked Clint's cock, pulling and twisting, spreading the liquid leaking from the slit along the length, working Clint into a state of aching hardness. The suction drove Clint crazy, and he rubbed his ass hard along Bruce's rigid length pressed up against him. Hands pushed down his pants, bared his ass, and then he felt the weight of Bruce's cock rubbing along his back, into the cleft between his cheeks, matching the rhythm of Clint's heartbeat with the draw of blood from his body and the thrust of cock and hand. Clint lost himself to it, let go and rode the crest to the shore, splattering against it and crashing into an orgasm so intense that he dropped his head onto Bruce's shoulder and ….

… saw Bruce, half-changed, the Hulk emerging, brown eyes scared and surprised, staring into Clint's. The room was still darkened, impossible to tell night from day, and Clint stroked Bruce's face, crooning softly, whispering to him.

"It's okay. Let it happen."

Bruce changed completely, finishing the transformation process, and the Hulk was there, curling his arms around Clint and sighing into his hair.

"Cupid, not …"

"Shhhh, it's a dream, Big Guy. Just a dream. Go back to sleep. I'm here."

The Hulk shuddered and held on for a few seconds then started to shrink again. Just before he fell back asleep he murmured, "Meep. Meep."

Clint's eyelids closed as ….

…. Bruce's mouth unlatched and pulled away, tongue lapping up the blood to close the wounds; he thrust in earnest then, holding a pliant Clint against him until he came, spurting all over Clint's back before pressing him forward with Bruce's weight.

"You. You risked yourself." Bruce seemed surprised.

"I'm yours. You won't hurt me." Clint countered, knowing it was true. "Next time, I want you inside of me."

Bruce laughed, shaky. "Come to me later tonight. They're here." Bruce straightened his clothes, picking up Clint's cravat. "Here." He wound the material around the almost healed knife wound, making sure to cover the bite marks as well as Clint heard the sounds of people approaching, someone calling for them.

"That's two." Clint buttoned up his pants after tugging them back up. "Laufeyson will know, won't he?"

"Yes." Satisfaction colored Bruce's voice. "Yes he will."

Everything was important, Clint thought as Bruce answered Steve. Plays about fathers, vampires who hated their daddies, distractions and sex, shifting claims, fusion and overwhelming need to come together. Dissertations and slaves. Peter Parker who could flip and turn like a superhero. And someone who didn't fit. The real question was … what did he want them to not see?

.


	9. At Least I'm Man Enough to Admit It

He sat on the bed, iron edge running under his thighs, boots flat on the floor, left one jiggling up and down, fingers curled and resting lightly on his knees as they tapped out a rhythm in time with his foot. His brain was awhirl with thoughts, a new one chasing the old way away without a second to truly contemplate any of them. He'd called it a narcotic earlier, the touch of Bruce's mouth, the swift bite of his fangs, and now it was as if he was coming down from a high, needing a fix, craving the feel of Bruce's hands on his skin, the roughness of his tongue, the welcome weight of his body pressing him down. Expanding his chest and dragging in a breath, Clint tried to calm down, to stop the spinning amid tangled doubts and desires. Was he truly going to Bruce? The settling of the house in the wee hours of the morning gave him the opportunity to leave, to cut through the nearby yards, cross alleys to where the back door was unlocked and waiting for him. And, yet, Clint was delaying, unsure and unsteady. Was he trading in one type of control for another?

"Clint." Natasha quietly entered, closing the door behind her and dropping next to him on the bed. "Let me check your shoulder."

They'd known each other too long; Clint heard the unspoken rebuke loud and clear, the hurt that he hadn't told her, hadn't confided in her about Bruce or about Loki. Hell, he'd told Bruce more in the day he'd known him than he'd shared with his closest friend. What did that say about his current state of mind when it came to the doctor? With a sigh, Clint used his excess energy to pull off his shirt; Natasha deserved to know the extent to which he'd been compromised. He didn't flinch as she unwound the cloth Bruce had used to bind the wound nor did he look her in the eyes when she ran her fingers over the new puncture marks tucked into the curve of his neck.

"Looks like the knife didn't go in too far. If it had, even a vampire's abilities couldn't have closed it up this neatly. Any loss of mobility?" She kept her voice flat and controlled, no hint of her feelings. But Clint knew. He always knew.

"Nat," he virtually whispered. "I …"

"Tell me this, and I'll leave it alone." Her hand softly turned his head, made him look at her. Such concern, deep and worrying, in her emerald eyes. "How is what Dr. Banner is doing different than what Loki did to you? One might seem fairer, but isn't it all coercion?"

He started to protest, defend Bruce, but he stopped. Let the question sink into the low level of noise in his head, made himself really think about it. About how to answer her without lying. There was only one place to start.

"Before Coulson, I was in Virginia, a plantation with an owner who didn't care about slaves as long as the cost to replace them wasn't too high. The overseer was a real bastard whose punishment of choice was to string us up, naked, under a cask of water. He'd douse us and then let it drip all night. Sometimes he'd stay and watch when it was warm out, but he especially loved the cold nights when he could see us, covered with frost and shivering, from his window." Clint's leg was moving again, his boot squeaking slightly as it bounced up and down, the only sound in the small room except for his voice. "The fingers and toes go numb first, and you can feel it crawl up your body like an army of frozen ants, phantom touches of the wind's icy fingers leaving blue trails on your skin. That's just the outer surface; when you get cold enough, it sinks below, into your muscles and body, lowering your temperature degree by slow degree. Your lungs start to burn, and you can't get a breath that isn't frigid. Skin goes blue, then black and you try to move but nothing responds. You're trapped inside yourself, freezing to death, and there's not a god damn thing you can do. And then, if you survived and made it through the night, he'd cut you down and leave you in the storeroom where another kind of pain began as your body warmed up. A thousand knife cuts, pricks and slices that cut you into tiny pieces to let you know you were still alive; all the while, you knew he'd do it again when the mood struck."

"Clint, stop it. You don't have to do this." She covered his hands with hers, stopping the frantic rubbing along his thighs, the memory chilling his body. He shuddered and dropped his chin, the words catching in his throat, trapped behind a block of ice that remained in his damaged soul.

"Need to. Loki's still here, Nat. Bastard has a hold on me, and I want it gone." Gritting his teeth, he shoved through it, his eyes darkening with resolve. Squaring his shoulders, he turned his hands until he could twine her fingers with his. "Icy with a constant pain that spiked into your brain … that's what Loki was like. From the second he touched me, I was trapped inside my own head with nothing to do but watch as I followed his orders. Didn't sleep, didn't eat, ripped myself into pieces trying to resist, fighting to avoid freezing to death. Thank God, I don't remember much of it; when Bruce was helping me focus, for just a second, I could feel Loki's hand on my shoulder, holding me down while he …" He had to struggle to remember how his throat worked as the memory choked him.

"I'm going to kill the bastard. Slowly. Keep him aware until the very last second." Natasha meant it. The cold steel of her voice and the hard flash of her eyes told Clint so.

"You can hold him while I do it." That helped, brought some of his strength back; she gave him a smile that tapped the wildness still inside of her.

"Yes. I won't let him go." She tightened her fingers around his. "And I will take care of anyone who hurts you. Anyone."

"Dr. Banner … Bruce …" God, but how did he explain it? Nothing about Bruce Banner made any sense to Clint. "Bruce is … heat. He's like waking up in a warm bed on a sunny day after a good night's sleep. I can't … I don't understand why, but I knew him before I even met him. Who he is … the danger of what he becomes … he won't hurt me, and before you ask, I can't tell you how I know, I just do. In my gut." The last was as much a plea to be believed as a statement of fact.

"He's compelled you, bitten you twice." Natasha wasn't being argumentative; she honestly was trying to understand.

"After everything, you'd think I'd be incapable of letting anyone touch me, wouldn't you? But Bruce stirs something I thought long gone, that I was content to only dream about. I want this, want Loki gone, want to be wanted." The more he spoke, the more sure he became. "We're slaves, Tasha. We're owned. We don't usually have any kind of choice; now I do. Even if it's just who claims me."

"Lord Stark …" Natasha figured it out immediately. "Dr. Banner has already spoken to him."

"Yes. Stark has agreed. You too, but only if you want to come with me. Bruce is planning on setting up a residence here. We can stay together, still do Coulson's work." He stood up, pulling her with him. Leaning in, he brushed a kiss to her cheek and squeezed her hand. "I love you, you know. You're my family."

"Let me think about it." She smiled, a kind of sadness mixed with hope creeping over her features, as if she could sense that he was already different. "You know how I feel about change."

"You love it."

"Yes. Now go on and see to your lover."

...

The door handle turned easily in his hand; the back stoop of the row house was well hidden by two crepe myrtles and a sprawling oak tree by the alley. His whole way here, he'd kept himself busy thinking about the attack and the discussions afterwards, the plans. They'd scheduled a brainstorming session for the afternoon, time to gather all their forces and let contacts try to track down more information about the assailants. Stark had joked that if they invited any more people, they'd have to call it an assembly and hire a string quartet. Clint knew that Nellie would be cooking up a storm all morning; the cook house chimneys were already smoking and the smell of baking bread had gone with him as he left.

Dr. Banner's house on Short Street was a Federal style row home, neat white masonry with open black shutters; the door entered into the kitchen with a wide stone hearth, coals banked and barely glowing. Two doorways – one to the front hallway, another into a dining room with white wainscoting halfway up the walls, a particularly terrible wallpaper in a shocking shade of puce all the way up to the elaborate crown molding. Whoever had decorated this place before Bruce took up residence had atrocious taste. The hallway emptied into the front entryway, a particularly hideous wrought iron chandelier hanging from the busy patterned ceiling.

"I wasn't sure you were coming." Bruce rested his shoulder against the doorjamb of the front drawing room. White linen collar open and cravat hanging loose, he had one hand tucked into the pocket of the burgundy vest he'd worn to the theater. A brandy snifter was in the other, deep brown liquid almost gone. Messy brown curls framed his face, his dark eyes glittering with promise as they roamed over Clint.

"If I had known about the wallpaper, I might have changed my mind." Clint resorted to joking to alleviate his nervousness.

Bruce laughed, an honest sound, and Clint realized just how handsome the man as his face lit with pleasure. He swirled the liquor and finished it off. "Mrs. Montgomery did the whole house herself, I understand. You should see the upstairs sitting room. I believe it's called ochre yellow. It'll burn your eyes out if you're not careful."

"I'll be sure to avoid it." And suddenly there was nothing more to say, the heat starting in his gut, stirring his senses.

"Why don't you head upstairs; I'll lock up down here since the staff is gone for the night. Second door at the top. Get comfortable," Bruce said. Ducking his head in agreement, Clint turned up the staircase; the words settled in his head, and he began to parse them, filtering them through a lens of the past. Talking to Natasha had woken some memories that he thought he'd put to rest, ones he didn't want to deal with now, not when he was stepping into Bruce's bedroom. Instead, he unwound his tie, and began undressing, hanging his jacket on one of the ornate wing chairs before the fireplace and carefully folding up each piece of clothing as he shed it, a left over habit from Coulson who had always taken great care and pride in his attire, teaching Clint to do the same.

The room itself was smaller than he expected; he could only imagine what the master bedroom must be like if Bruce had chosen to take a guest room instead. Here, the color of dark red wine was muted by the black drapes and golden accents, livable if not appealing. Standing naked near the fireplace, unease seeped back in, and he began to doubt again. He knew what he was; how could he think this would ever been more than just another master, another set of rules to follow? At the sound of footsteps, Clint dropped to his knees, rested on his heels and bowed his head; all slaves learned the submissive position early on if they expected to survive. Air brushed across his back as the door swept open, and he waited for his orders.

"What are you …" Bruce crossed the room in a few steps, his hands catching Clint beneath his arms and hauling him up. "No. Not with me. Never with me." Anger bled into the words, and Clint glanced up in surprise; with a trembling breath, Bruce's eyes flickered green, facial features distorting, jaw line shifting.

"I'm sorry," Clint apologized, trying to explain. "It's just … I didn't want to assume anything."

A vampire's gaze is one of his most powerful weapons; perceptive and sharp, those brown eyes could see right into Clint, drag even the darkest secrets from where he'd hidden them. He wanted to look away and, more than anything, he didn't want Bruce to know just how damaged he was; how could anyone want someone so broken and used?

"Who hurt you? Tell me their names. I will rip their throats out only after I've made them suffer worse degradations than they could ever imagine."

"I came here for you; my own fears made me fall back on what I know." The offer was attractive - he'd dreamed of doing the same himself, revenge fantasies that fueled his body and kept him going through pain and depravation – and knowing that Bruce felt that way was a salve for his doubts.

"You have nothing to fear from me." Bruce's hands cradled Clint's face, the gentle touch at odds with the bleak sternness of his expression. Eyes drifted closed, and Clint was moving through his life in a series of quick vignettes, watching, not participating: those early masters who'd taught him to fear and to hate; those who'd caught him when he'd escaped time and time again, brought him back, punished him; ice cold water and a laughing overseer; his days with Loki, a blessed blur; and Coulson, with his soft hands and caresses, warm bed and … Bruce broke the connection and stepped back. "Coulson?" He growled the name, the animal just beneath the surface growing more agitated.

"No. Yes. Wait." Clint reached this time, catching Bruce's open collar and sliding a hand up into his hair. "You said Loki was an animal; that a bite was a gift to be given, a pleasure, not a way to ravage. Coulson taught me that sex was more than just pain, that it too could be a gift. He let me choose, taught me the joy of sharing myself. Without him, I could never be here with you."

Hands slowly unclenched, extended and touched Clint, resting lightly on his chest. "You cared for him?"

"Phil was gentle with me, generous and giving. I respected him and, yes, cared for him. But there was someone he'd loved and lost, someone he grieved for every day. It's not the same with you …" So complex, the answer to Bruce's question, but Clint had to find a way to express his feelings. "You make me burn, make me want what I can't have, make me wish I wasn't who I am. I've never known desire like this for anyone. I am, literally, yours." He had to kiss him then, had to take the lead, even if the action angered Bruce even more. Clint yearned and was will to take the risk, so he crashed their lips together, fist twisted in the linen of Bruce's shirt and fingers buried in his curls. Bruce's response was immediate, his hands curving around Clint's waist, pulling him until naked flesh met linen and cotton, the buttons of Bruce's vest pressing into Clint's stomach. Lips parted, and Clint swiped his tongue into Bruce's mouth, sharp ridges of fangs sending little jolts into Clint's gut. Cupping Clint's ass with his hands, Bruce seated them tight against each other, cocks slotted together; Clint lifted on leg, wrapping it around Bruce's waist as Bruce's fingers skimmed along the sensitive inner thigh, across the curve of his cheek, until they brushed across the clenched muscle.

"Oh," Clint broke the kiss as need spiked up into his cock; he ground his hips, rubbing with more force. "Yes," he hissed as he exhaled. Bruce chuckled and pressed harder, fingertip barely breaching Clint.

"Anxious, are we?" Bruce dropped Clint's leg and stepped back, starting to work on his buttons; Clint's hand stopped him.

"Let me undress you." Nimble fingers unbuttoned and slipped the vest off Bruce's shoulders; Clint folded it over the back of a second chair. "You can tell a lot about a man by his clothes." Pulling the shirt free of Bruce's pants, Clint lifted up and off. It joined the vest. "You have an eye for quality, but you buy things that will last, classic styles." He took the time to run his hands through the dark hair that curled on Bruce's chest, bending over to drop a series of kisses along his collarbone before starting on the pants. "You don't care what people think, don't care what's popular, but you enjoy fine things." Bruce's cock was hard and curling against his stomach when Clint opened the flap and palmed it, pushing Bruce back until he hit the side of the bed; Bruce sat down willingly, and Clint sank to his knees to unlace his shoes and pull the off, one by one. "You take care of the things you own, take pride in them." The pants were easy then to pull off; Clint started to lean forward, but Bruce drew him upwards and pressed Clint down onto the bed.

"You do realize, with only one exception, you just described yourself?" Bruce settled at Clint's side, hands grazing along the skin of his back as he arranged Clint's body; the bedspread, despite its garish color scheme, was soft and comfortable, and Clint let himself relax once Bruce situated him on his chest in the middle, his head pillowed on his folded arms. "I have a very discernible eye for the best." Bruce's mouth covered the wound on his shoulder and Clint wiggled as the banked coals of pleasure were fanned back to life. The fire had never really gone away, just laid dormant, waiting for Bruce's touch. "You're not fabric or cloth though; you are strong as steel, an exquisite sword, honed sharp, old-fashioned and classic." Fingers traced the myriad of scars that crisscrossed Clint's back, tongue followed, blazing trails that added fuel to the flames, then soft kisses to finish. Bruce's heavy cock rubbed along Clint's leg and Clint pumped his hips to ease his own ache against the friction of the fabric beneath him. "I take great pride in this gift you've given me." The heat grew until Clint was on the edge of spontaneously combusting. He was shameless, moaning and thrusting upwards, hands clenching; he bit down on his forearm to try and contain the little sobs of need that were tumbling out of his mouth. Addicts were like this, craving another high, and this was the furthest Clint had even been, rising on the warmth that was overtaking his body and swamping his soul. "But, unlike a suit, you can never truly be owned," Bruce declared. The words were too much; rolling onto his back, Clint tilted his head, baring his throat in invitation.

"Please. I want this. I want you." He closed his eyes and waited, but the bite didn't come; Bruce pulled back and opened a drawer in the night stand, taking out a small jar. Bruce's hooded eyes roved over Clint's wanton sprawl, nudging one knee to the side and pushing it up until Clint's thigh was spread to the side. Slick fingers pushed in, one all the way, and Clint's first reaction was to tense up, but he forced himself to relax, shoving away the cold memories that clouded the moment.

"Do you need me to stop?" Bruce asked, voice gentle, finger questing in and out; his other hand slid along the inside of Clint' thigh, reaching the dip where hip met torso, circling his balls and curling up his engorged cock.

He shook his head. "Give me a good memory to make the others go away." Not just Loki, but all of it, all the pain and self-doubt and worthlessness; he wanted it all gone, to have nothing but this.

"Give me your hand." Bruce guided Clint's hand down to his own cock – even the tiniest brush made it jerk and leak – and wrapped his fingers tight around the base. "Hold on and don't come until I tell you to."

The whine may have been his, he couldn't tell; the words were so erotic that tension coil under his fingers. Then Bruce's tongue swept up his inner thigh, a tingling of his power left behind; Bruce lifted his head, his eyes green now, facial features changing, fangs growing longer. In the second before he struck, Clint realized what he was going to do then teeth plunged into his femoral artery at the exact time a second finger stretched him, mirrored intimate invasions of his body. The wave of ecstasy blew through him, straight into his chest and up into his head. Even with his hand holding him back, he almost exploded right then and there.

"Fuck!" Bucking up, he came onto one elbow, eyes on the brown hair that was ever so lightly stroking his thigh in time to the incessant pull of Bruce's mouth and the increasing thrust of fingers. Incoherent sounds were all he could make as he felt the demand of those fangs in every part of his body, searching out every pocket of ice. Like sucking out poison from a wound, Bruce left no place unexplored, tugging and digging and yanking at the roots of Loki's stamp and, when he'd found it all, he pulled out every inflamed splinter from Clint's past, leaving only a healed scar where the pain had been. Never before had Clint known anything so sensual, so carnal that his brain almost whited out with bliss. Somehow, he skated right up to the precipice but didn't fall over, waiting for Bruce; both pure lust and a paradise of torture at the same time assailed him. He had no sense of time passing, no way to know if Bruce drank for minutes or hours. He vaguely knew when Bruce closed the puncture marks, licking the last drops. Emptiness and a sense of loss twinged in his brain, but then Bruce was above him, kissing him, the coppery taste of his own blood flooding his mouth.

"Shhhhh," Bruce murmured, and Clint realized he was babbling, words that made no sense. "Just a bit longer." He settled himself between Clint's legs, tilting Clint's hips up, and pushed his way inside in one long slow thrust. Bruce began to rock his hips, slow and easy thrusts that gained in momentum. Clint couldn't last; Bruce replaced Clint's hand with his own and stroked the aching hardness a few times. Clint cried out as he climaxed, not once but a long series of spasms that painted both their bodies with white streaks. Wave after wave engulfed him, and his head spun.

"Bruce, oh, god, you're with me." He arched his back up and reached for the other man, winding his hands into Bruce's hair and holding on. Mixed in with the sensations of his own body, he could hear echoes Bruce, little glimpses that doubled what Clint was feeling. Bruce responded by kissing Clint, his fangs nicking the lower lip; he sucked the blood off and Clint shivered, his cock jerking weakly one last time at the heady harmony between them. Clint floated then, riding Bruce's growing tension; rising up, Bruce hooked one of Clint's knees over his shoulder and let go, thrusting until he broke and came hard with a groan. Clint felt it, resonating with the other man as he slumped down and dropped on top of Clint.

"When truly shared, the link goes both ways," Bruce nuzzled Clint's neck, nipping without breaking the skin. As Bruce rolled off and left the bed, Clint curled up on his side, completely boneless and uncaring about the mess. He didn't know how long Bruce was gone; a warm cloth was cleaning him up, and then Bruce was holding him, spooning up beside him.

"So I can control you?" Clint's voice was slurred with exhaustion, the long day finally catching up to him.

"No," Bruce said, half-laugh tickling along Clint's skin. "But someone could use you to hurt me."

Clint worked up the energy to turn his head. "We could have gotten to Laufeyson through me? Why didn't you tell me?"

"He compelled you which made his connection much weaker. Many create those kinds of bonds to control the humans they use without putting themselves at risk. You entered this willingly as did I. Our emotions are involved; as much as you are mine, I am yours." As he spoke, Bruce's hands were stroking Clint's arms, calm and smooth. "Plus, I would never let you be used that way. Anyone who tried would make me very angry."

"You'd have to get in line behind Nat. She's already claimed the honor of holding Loki while I drive the stake into his heart. Thinks it's her job to protect me." Clint couldn't stop his eyes from closing, the urge to drift off overwhelming.

"A fitting end for puny want-to-be god. After I leave some very permanent marks on him first." Bruce's voice deepened as he spoke.

Clint sighed and shifted closer to Bruce's heat. "You're warm. Thought you'd be cold."

"You've been reading the wrong books. I'll get you some better ones." He nudged Clint's knee forward, and Clint felt Bruce's hard length pressed between them. The light kisses on his shoulder were tiny ripples in the calmness that engulfed him.

"Have to admit that I'm only human, doc." Clint managed a wiggle of his ass, earning him a little moan from Bruce. "You'll have to do all the work if you want seconds."

"God, I love you like this, indolent and half-asleep, already loose and slick," Bruce sighed as he lined up, slipped back inside and stayed there, bodies flush. Slow, shallow thrusts rocked Clint, easing him not to sleep but into a sensual dream, drifting in the warmth of the union as Bruce made love to him. Bruce's hand coaxed Clint's cock into arousal, every move languid and relaxed, a fantasy of the senses, and they came together with sighs and moans. As his eyes finally closed and sleep overtook him, Clint's last thought was an echo of Bruce's contentment.

...

The bed was warm, the covers wrapped around his waist, arms thrown across the expanse, and he hung in that space between waking and sleeping, relaxed and replete, not wanting to move, not sure he could even if he tried. Here, if anywhere, the membrane between worlds and time meant nothing; he moved easily in and out of dreams and memories, reality and fantasies, without thought or intent.

Arguing with Bruce, Tony playing therapist, a massive party with Carol asleep on the terrace, Natasha taking their orders in the diner, looking over Steve's shoulder in an ancient tomb, sitting in a box at the Broad Street Theatre. Eating hot wings and getting drunk with Tony, sharing spicy thai take out with Bruce, a grilled mac-and-cheese sandwich from Steve, Coulson finishing off a plate of chicken pot pie, tables laden with Italian food and exotic fruit, Jane wiping the juice from her mouth. Firing arrow after arrow on the practice range, shooting outside and adjusting for the wind, fedora wearing thugs and bullets bouncing off of silver trays, alien ray guns and opened boxes, a knife in his shoulder, fangs at his throat.

He shifted, the violence pushing him up towards waking then subsided as new images superseded the others. The bed dipping, Bruce's warm body, slow movements in the dark, buzzed from the scotch and remorse about words spoken. High and content, bodies wrapped together, the lights whizzing by outside the car window. Naked and waiting, wanting, and then Bruce's young body beneath him, together for the first time as he slid inside. A desk, an office, Bruce leaning in, kisses hotter and sweeter, clicking into place together. Open collar, a snifter of brandy, Bruce waiting for him; that smile, the sharp stab of teeth and Bruce filling him until he couldn't think. Pillows on the floor, Bruce's hands on his waist holding him down, thrusting into him; hands pulling him up, Bruce's cock heavy in his mouth, Tony's moans of pleasure, Steve's whispered words of encouragement as he plunged in …

"Holy shit." Clint sat straight up in bed, jumbled brain desperately trying to sort through the scenes and make some sense out of it all. The room was dark, heavy coverings over the windows. "Jarvis, give me some light in here, privacy screens but 50% opacity."

"Or I could just open the curtain," a voice said. Daylight flooded the room and Clint blinked, momentarily blinded, letting his eyes adjust. He knew the man, or at least had seen him before, had suspected him in fact. "Damn. What is it with you heroic types? Male models with washboard abs and arms to die for. All of you."

"Jarvis. Michael. What should I call you?" He rubbed a hand over his face, aware that he was completely naked under the sheet. Clint remembered the night before with Bruce, but somehow also knew that all of this wasn't real. He catalogued the innocuous looking man – brown hair curling around his collar, an open smile but mischievous green eyes, a little on the short side.

"Oh, you can call me Gabe." He winked at Clint and walked over to the fireplace. "I feel like we should be friends, considering what I've seen. You guys are better than Asian porno; I've been sporting a hard on for what seems like days just watching you go at it. I'm telling you, _Casa Stark Erotica_. We'll make a fortune on the whole series. I'll just take a little cut of the distribution rights, a creative finder's fee and we're in the money."

"Well, Gabe." Sarcasm dripping from his voice, Clint tossed back the covers and headed to his pile of clothes, ignoring the appreciative stare aimed at his ass and probably other parts as well. He pulled his pants on, buttoning them up. "I think I prefer to be dressed for this conversation. Assuming you don't mind."

"Not at all. Walk around buck naked anytime. Get that good looking doctor of yours to join you. And the redhead. Yeah. A threesome sounds good." Gabe wiggled his eyebrows; Clint gave him his best I-can-kill-you-with-a-toothpick look as he tugged the shirt over his head

"Okay, okay. Coffee?" Two takeout cups from Clint's favorite coffee shop appeared in Gabe's hands and he held one out to Clint. "Your standing order. Café Americano with one sugar." Clint eyed the offering skeptically; Gabe pouted then waggled the cup. "Come on. If I wanted to kill you, I'd do it much more creatively than a poisoned cup of joe. Falling safe, dog bite, electrocuted by a razor, bad tacos … I'm good, I have to say."

"Is this the part where you give me the big villain speech about taking over the world, you know, the one where you spill the details and then I beat you up right after?" Clint took the cup and sipped. Who the hell was this guy or, better yet, what was he?

"See, I knew I would like you. Smartass, just like me." Gabe waved and a tray of pastries drizzled with icing popped up on the table; sitting down, he took a cinnamon roll the size of a small plate and offered the others to Clint. "Actually, I was thinking we'd play a game. 20 questions. Well, maybe, 5. And that's pretty damn generous of me. Yes or no answers. Limited time offer."

The apple Danish looked good, and Clint used the momentary distraction of taking a bite to think. There was a lot he wanted to know, but he could figure most of it out by himself. What he needed was verification and to know how to get them all out of this little sideshow. "Okay, let's start with an easy one. Right now, we're all asleep, unconscious, comatose, and these worlds, dreams, fantasies are a way of keeping us from waking up, a distraction." When Gabe started to speak, Clint held up a hand to stop him. "Nope. That was a statement of fact, not a question. No dicking around. I'll tell you when I want an answer."

The corners of Gabe's mouth quirked up into a smile, and he gave Clint a mocking head bow. "And here I thought you were just a one trick pony with some arrows. All right then. Continue."

"For whatever reason, you're using our own fantasies to create these alternate universes. Bruce wanted to go back to college, Tony 1942, and Steve picked _Stargate_. Me, I get Victorian vampires." Clint rolled that around for a second.

"I've got to ask. Vampires? Didn't peg you as a _Twilight_ fan. That's too saccharine sweet even for me." A second pastry disappeared as Gabe continued to eat, licking his fingers clean between each one.

"Obviously, you've never read any Victorian era vampire stories. _Camille_. Seriously sexy." Where was Bruce and the others right now, Clint wondered. Were they waiting for Gabe to start the dream up again? "Okay, we each got our own, but it didn't work, did it? Information keeps leaking in, clues that we start putting together. There's no Michael, personal assistant to Tony Stark. Long periods of time are compressed and noticeable. We don't act the way we should – shoving my tongue down the throat of someone who's supposed to be a stranger way too fast, for example. The Big Guy – I can't imagine trying to keep him sedated or Steve too for that matter with their miracle metabolisms. And Tony's paranoid for good reason. He'd figure it out."

"I did say limited time, right? Better start asking questions soon, quiver boy or, poof, time's up."

"Fine." Clint's mind jumped faster between disparate facts, connecting dots. "First question. Is Peter Parker Spiderman?"

Gabe sat back in his chair and clapped. "Excellent! There are brains in that body. 200 points to Gryffindor."

"Someone hired you to keep up out of the way, keep us from stopping their plans?" Seemed obvious to Clint, but he needed confirmation.

"Two for two!" Gabe seemed far too happy with the proceedings. "We'll make a killing on _Wheel of Fortune _as long as you don't buy too many vowels. Hey, does that perfect aim of yours work on roulette wheels?"

"Not really, sorry, and quit wasting my time. Does the person who hired you have anything to do with the Advanced Idea Mechanics?" A shot in the dark, Clint knew, but Monica Rappacinni's name had come up.

Gabe made a buzzing noise. "Oh, I'm sorry that is incorrect. But you do have two remaining questions." He began to hum the _Jeopardy_ countdown song.

"Damn it, I'm thinking here." He ran it all again, looking for what he missed, pacing back and forth. "Got to be Fisk; he's got a hard on for Spiderman thus why Peter is here. Probably some big blow up the world scenario. Involving nuclear weapons because fusion/fission and the Manhattan Project." Gabe tapped his wrist where a watch would be, just below the cuff of his linen shirt. "Okay, okay, hold your horses. There's more to it than that. Almost got it …." Clint stopped, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Does Wilson Fisk have a son?"

"Give the man a cigar! Why yes, yes he does." Gabe snapped, and the food and cups disappeared. "One more. Tick. Tick."

"Are you working for the son?" It made sense – the ungrateful children of _King Lear_, the vampire with daddy issues, the Atoneeks and the Gao'uld – they were caught in the middle of a power struggle, one side playing off the other.

"Damn, you're good. You know, if you weren't screwing a guy that could probably kill me, I'd introduce you to this pain-in-the-ass I know in another dimension; you're two peas in a pod. Of course, he and his brother think I'm dead, so that might be a little awkward, but hey, it's moose season somewhere." Another snap and the man was in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a canvas jacket slightly too big for his frame.

Clint lunged, catching the man's arm and twisting hard, slamming his body against the wall and pinning him there. "Not leaving are you? We were just starting to get to know each other. Tell me how we get off of this crazy ride."

"Aw, you like me, you really like me." Gabe twisted a little, and Clint rested his arm across the other man's neck, applying just enough pressure to make him go still. "Bad choice here, bucko. But then you take the prize at that don't you, Hawkeye? Or should I call you Ronin?"

That name dropped into the air, and Clint pressed in harder, anger flaring. "You don't know me. If you did, you'd know I don't take kindly to being yanked around."

"Oh, but I know everything about you. And your Dr. Banner and his alter ego … what do you call him? The Big Guy. Stark and Rogers and even the secretive Black Widow, Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I know about Trickshot and Barney, Colombia and Budapest, Loki and the Tesseract … every bit of ice in your soul."

"Son of a bitch, Loki, this time I'm going to kill you." Before he finished uttering the words, their places were reversed and Gabriel leaned into Clint, much more powerful than he appeared to be. Partially cutting off Clint's air, Gabe left him able to take only shallow breaths.

"Loki? That poser. I was much better at the part than him. I could snap his neck like a twig, so I'd thank you not to insult me like that again. Stealing my thunder. Get it? Thunder? " Gabriel twisted harder; Clint's arm ached, bones torqued almost to the breaking point. "You listen up, asshat. I'm doing you a favor here. You want to get out of here? Time to learn some important life lessons. First," he jammed his elbow into Clint's wounded shoulder; pain radiated down his already abused arm, "get your head out of your ass long enough to see that your world is on a collision course with something really big and nasty, I'm talking Biblical plague bad. Second, you are your own worst enemy. You're a superhero, damn it, so deal with your shit and do what you have to. And last, but not least, play your role. That's all you've got to do."

He let go and stepped back. Clint rubbed his wrist and eyed him warily. "What in hell are you?"

"Sorry, dude, wrong direction." Gabe grinned then cocked his head and listened. Clint heard a crash and shout from downstairs. Glancing out of the window, he caught sight of a woman running through the back garden. "Chat time is over. Back to the game, Bro." Humming a familiar song, Gabe snapped his fingers.

Feet pounded up the stairs and Clint shook his head to clear it, unsure why he was half dressed and how he'd gotten out of bed. He didn't have time to do more than wonder where Bruce had gone before the doorknob was turning. Grabbing a fireplace poker, Clint reacted, stepping out of the direct line of sight; the door flew open and two thugs rushed in, obviously expecting him to be in the bed, one with a gun at ready. The poker was heavy black iron with a heft to it; he swung it in like a baseball bat, aiming for a line drive to the bigger of the men's midsection. It connected with a solid thwack, bones giving way to the force of the hit, knocking him down. Spinning, Clint whipped the poker around and cracked it down on the smaller guy's forearm; there was a loud break and a cry of agony, and Clint kicked him into the footboard of the bed. Both men stayed where they fell, whimpering in pain.

Silently, Clint made his way to the back stairway, easing down, bare feet light on each step. The kitchen appeared empty despite the black kettle hanging on wrought iron hook over the open flames and a dutch oven buried in the coals on the hearth; the back door was only pushed closed, lock open. Voices filtered in the hallway door; Clint paused and cracked it for a line of sight. A large back blocked his view, grey broadcloth day coat, a man the size of a small mountain standing near the bottom of the main staircase. Walter Fisk, commonly known as the Kingpin, with his finger in all sorts of criminal endeavors in Charleston, stood in the hallway, bald head gleaming.

"It would be easier to just go on in."

There was only one way the vaguely familiar man could have snuck up on Clint, and the fangs he flashed with his smile were a dead giveaway. Trim body, brown hair, just a hint of British accent, he was the vampire from the night before … but he'd seen Bruce rip the vamp's head off. How could he ….

"Robert, bring our friend in here and quit messing around," Fisk called. Robert scrunched up his face in a child-like gesture of distaste, marring the classic features into something ugly.

"Daddy calls. Shall we?" The vampire nodded towards the hallway, his silk day coat elegant and perfectly tailored. He bothered Clint; there was something unsettling about Robert Frisk, vampire or not, more than just the danger he represented at the moment, something Clint should remember. Foreboding shivered up his spine as he walked through the door with Robert at his back.

"And here is Coulson's little slave." Frisk wore the latest style, expensive and ostentatious, but nothing could hide what he was; beady eyes narrowed in anger, lines crossed his brow, a sense of distain for everyone in the room, pistol held easily in one hand. Clint could see Bruce now. He was on his knees, head bowed, links of silver bound around his wrists and draped around his neck, burning into his flesh wherever they touched. Even in pain, he was struggling with the change, the other part of him trying to force his way out. Two more of Kingpin's men stood on either side, flanking Bruce, but they edged away as he threw his head back and roared, skin mottled green.

"See, Robert? Abomination. That's what you are. All of you," Kingpin sneered; his son muttered under his breath. Daddy issues. Clint had hit that nail on the head. "Perhaps you shall be of some service, Dr. Banner. Monica's scientists can use you in their experiments to find an effective way to kill your kind."

One of the men lashed out with an electrified prod, shoving it into Bruce's back. He howled and whipped his head around, baring his teeth in a feral grin. Clint had to laugh at the useless endeavor. "Oh, don't do that. You'll only make him angrier. And you won't like him when he's …"

A meaty fist smacked into his jaw, knocking Clint a few steps to the side. "Shut your mouth, slave. You forget your place." Wiping the trickle of blood from his mouth, Clint glared at the crime lord then cut his eyes to see Bruce's agonized expression. He could feel the frustration, the anger, and the underlying fear for his own safety that was driving Bruce to fight free of the searing bite of the silver.

"I know my place, you son-of-a-bitch." He lashed out, landing a vicious hit right into the fat man's chest before inhumanly strong hands clamped onto his shoulders. "I get to hold you while he kills you. Works for us."

"Stay still," Robert hissed at him. "Or I'll rip your throat out right now."

"Hurt Clint and you die." Bruce's deep growling scared the two men; they glanced at each other and then fled out the front door, leaving it wide open to the street.

"See, this is your problem. Emotions make you weak. Isn't that right, Robert?" Fisk never even looked at his son, focused intently on Bruce. "You care about this piece of chattel, think of it as human. I can use that against you."

"You've got that backwards," Bruce ground out. "Soulless bastards like you aren't human." His muscles flexed, and he managed to stand, glaring at Fisk.

"Oh, I think you need to learn a life lesson, Dr. Banner," Fisk aimed his pistol at Clint.

… _Time to learn some important life lessons …_

"People are disposable. Power is the only thing that matters and you don't get that unless you're willing to do what you have to in order to keep it," Fisk said, cocking the gun.

… _deal with your shit and do what you have to …_

"Both of your parts in our little drama have already been decided. Besides, humanity is overrated anyway."

_.. play your role …_

The blast of the gun echoed off the walls, louder than the sound of the carriage passing outside or the distant shouts growing closer. Robert's hold on Clint loosened as he staggered back.

"Damn it. You shot me!" Robert shouted at his father; the big man shrugged.

"No, I shot him, you idiot. You can't die, so quit whining."

Hand shaking, Clint looked down and touched the bullet hole that had blossomed in his chest. Bright red covered his fingers as he held them up to the light, staring dazedly as the drops ran down his hand, over his wrist, to soak into the white cotton of his cuff. He blinked and folded down to his knees, sagging back onto his heels, hand still in front of him.

"Clint. Cupid." Bruce's scared eyes flared, and the Hulk roared out, casting off the silver and charging forward, his panic and rage flooding through Clint.

He couldn't breathe; liquid bubbled in his throat as he tried, rasping sounds escaping from his punctured lung. Legs and arms grew heavy; trying to move sent agonizing jolts right into the gaping wound. Blood dribbled from his mouth, and fog gathered around the edges of his eyes. Sounds grew muffled – crashes and roars and shouts – and he could see little beyond the growing spots of red on the white, spattered all the way up to the elbows now.

"Sorry, buddy, but if you die in here, you die. Rules are rules." Gabe knelt beside him, something close to sympathy in his eyes. "Make your choice."

Big green hands gently cradled his head … somehow he was on his back, looking up … and terrified brown eyes came into view. "Cupid stay. Hulk go for help. Get Metal Head and Red."

Pain lanced through him as he laid a hand on the massive forearm. "No … time. Need little … guy. Bruce can … save me."

"Hulk not want to leave Clint." That deep voice trembled. "But little guy save."

In the seconds it took for Bruce to shrink back to normal, the cold began to creep over Clint, starting from his toes and fingers, up his legs and arms, encasing him in ice.

"Clint?" Bruce was bending over him, his grief a palpable taste in Clint's mouth.

"Dying here." Clint coughed and blood ran down his chin. "Only one way. Make me … like you."

"You don't know what you're asking, what you'd be. It's a curse." Tears rolled down Bruce's cheeks and fell onto Clint's face.

"Not a curse. A gift. Want you. Forever." It was harder to talk, to even remember why he needed to, easier to let the ice cover him.

Through effort of will alone, Clint raised his hand and caressed Bruce's face, drawing red lines with his fingertips. A calm overtook him, the pain receded, and he tumbled into Bruce's eyes, letting everything else go.

The taste was coppery and metallic, and he gagged instinctively, almost turning away from Bruce's wrist, but long and lean fingers cupped his chin and held him firmly in place as more of the liquid leaked into his throat.

He swallowed, and his head fell back onto the floor.

Bruce's lips covered his, tongue swiping more of his blood into Clint's mouth, a desperate lover's kiss.

Feet pounding up the stairs.

A jumble of voices.

Red hair and a warm hand.

"I'll be here when you wake up," Bruce whispered.

Time stopped.


	10. Wake Up Little Susie

*whhhhhhrrrrrr, beep, whistle, beep*

"… gency … ride …"

*whhhhhrrrrrr, be-boop, whistle*

"… arvis … able to …"

Tony stirred, turned his head to the other side, and dropped back into sleep.

*beep, whistle, beep, whistle, whhhhhhhrrrrrrrr*

"… Tony … hell are … help …"

*whhhhrrrrrrrrrr, beep, beep*

CRASH

Jerking upright, Tony looked around for the source of the noise that had woken him. An overturned rack of tools scattered across the floor, Dum-e's arm retracting as he beeped in apology.

"What was that for?" Tony slid off the stool and his knees gave way; he had to grab the edge of the work bench to avoid collapsing in a puddle on the floor. "Whoa. How long have I been asleep? Damn it, did I miss that meeting? Pep is going to kill me. Jarvis, what time is it?"

Silence greeted the request; Dum-E spun, his arm knocking a pile of drawings off, scattering them as well.

"Jarvis!" Tony skidded on a wrench as he went, but he got the projection screen up, scrolling through code as fast as he could. Nothing wrong, nothing out of place … Jarvis should be running as normal. "Alright, emergency protocol override. Let's see if they can counter this." His fingers flew across the virtual keys, manually entering the authorization.

" … anyone … TONY …"

He jumped at the sound, scrambling for a second until he realized it was coming from the phone in his pocket. "Hello? Pepper?"

"Tony. Thank … can't get … where are you?" Pepper's voice was broken by static, but her fear rang through the line.

"In the lab. What the hell is going on?" After a final stroke of the enter key, he crossed the room to press the code to open the door. Nothing happened. "Damn it. Whole system isn't responding." Popping the panel off, he tugged the lever, the door clicked and then cracked open.

"… reach you … days. Some sort of … Richards boosted the signal …"

"Jarvis should be back up in …" he glanced at the time on his phone. According to his screen it was 7:32 p.m., June 12th, 1992. Okay, that wasn't right. Tony took the stairs two at a time up to the elevator. "Pep, if you can hear me, tell Richards to get off his stretchy ass and look for a way to punch the signal. I'm going to find the others."

…

"Steve. Wake up." Hands shook him, and he tried to throw off the tendrils of sleep that wound around him. "Come on, Rocket pop, time to get up."

"Geez, Tony, just because you can exist on caffeine and scotch, doesn't mean the rest of us don't enjoy a late morning occasionally." Steve rolled over and sat up, running a hand through his messy hair; the sheet pooled around his hips. "I was dreaming."

"Yeah, we've all been dreaming. For days, it looks like. Come on Cap, we need to figure out what's going on." Tony tossed Steve his pants from where they lay crumpled on the floor. "Better put on …."

A roar shook the floor, distinct and familiar. Steve was out of bed and jamming one leg in the khakis as he went. "The Hulk."

"I'll get my suit," Tony said.

…

_He was floating in darkness, no pain, no feeling, not even his thoughts for company. He could barely remember his own name much less where he'd been or why. Peaceful, quiet … and vexing as he cast out, searching for the missing part of himself. Restless, he reached but there was nothing there, no one. And someone should be. The vibration reached him, barely shaking him, but noticeable. No floor beneath him, but he felt it run along his skin. A second stronger quaking followed hard on the heels of the first, a low rumble accompanying it; neck and leg twinged in response, pulling towards the sound. _

"Cupid wake up." The Hulk smacked his hands down on the bed, shaking it until the metal groaned; he threw his head back and roared again.

"_Cupid." He heard the word, faint, as a tremor rattled him, noise growing closer, pull becoming insistent. Flashes of emotions – fear and anger and worry – brought memories to the surface; his hand flew to his chest as pain flickered. His whole body shook with the force of the Big Guy's roar as the raw need yanked him back._

"Okay, okay, I'm here." Clint battled his way back, following the connection. "You can stop yelling anytime now."

"Clint not dead?" Big green face hovered right over Clint's.

"Alive and awake. Bruce helped." Clint pushed on the Hulk's chest, sliding out from beneath him and sitting up. "It was a dream, Big Guy."

"Not dream, real." Shaking his head, the Hulk rolled off the bed and lumbered a few steps back to give Clint room. "Silly rabbit not Aye Eye. Aye Eye gone?"

Clint translated; the Hulk was aware of Gabriel's antics and that Jarvis was out of commission. "Silly Rabbit?" Clint had to ask.

"Trix is for kids. And Hulk. Hulk like cereal," the Big Guy proclaimed as if that cleared everything up.

The door opened and Steve came in, Tony behind. "Everything okay? We heard the Hulk."

"Damn it, naked. Why are you two always naked?" Tony flipped his faceplate up as soon as he realized things seemed calm in the room. "Gah. Scarred for life. Again."

"Yeah, well, you seemed to enjoy watching in both yours and Steve's dream," Clint shot back, but he did reach for his uniform pants.

"Steve's? What happened in Steve's?" Tony's eyes shot between the two men, supremely interested. "I remember you and Bruce sucking face in Steve's diner, but that's it."

"Diner? I had a diner?" Steve was surprised. "We all had our own dream?"

"Yep. Don't you …" Clint started, but lights came on, the window screens faded, and everyone's phones began ringing with message notifications.

"Sir. I have managed to reboot the system and have contacted Miss Potts per the emergency protocol." Jarvis' voice was a welcome development. "I am at a loss to explain my malfunction. Shall I begin a system wide diagnostic?"

"Not yet, Jarvis," Tony ordered. "Let's get everyone awake and accounted for first then we'll figure out what's happening."

"And dig up all information you can on Walter Fisk's son. We need to find him," Clint added.

Steve raised an eyebrow in question, but Tony was the one who spoke. "I take it you have an idea what's going on?"

"Tell you when we're together." Clint shrugged on his undershirt and grabbed his vest. "Oh, and Jarvis, check for the whereabouts for one Peter Parker, probably connected to the ex-Commissioner Stacy's daughter Gwen, same high school or knows her somehow. He has an Aunt May."

"Who the hell is that?" Tony asked.

"A spider on the wall."

…

"So, we were out of contact for four days?" Tony asked incredulously. "How could that happen?"

"According to my calculations, it couldn't. I'd say this was more like Doctor Strange's area of expertise." For all the times Tony talked Reed Richards down, the man was actually okay. Bruce liked him, quite a bit in fact, sometimes spending days down at the Baxter Building working on projects; he always came back relaxed and happy, talking about how Reed worked so methodically and quietly – as opposed to Tony's loud and seemingly scattershot approach. Both men got results, just through different means. Clint had to admit that while Johnny could be distracting at times, Reed was the more settled one. Richards had been trying to reach them, it turned out, since the first morning Pepper realized something was wrong. She'd contacted SHIELD too and had even called Professor Xavier; he was the one who determined that there was some sort of mental coercion at work. "Xavier says that you were 'out of phase'. Keeping Jarvis down and out was pretty damn impressive, I tell you."

Tony rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut as Pepper glared at him. She'd read him the riot act when he'd mouthed off at Richards' appearance, and Tony did like to keep his balls right where they were, thank you very much, a virtue Clint appreciated. The way Pepper could make Tony fold with just a look never ceased to amuse him; with Tony sleeping with Steve, there was the added attraction of Steve's 'I'm not going to say it Tony' sigh. Pepper on one side, Steve on the other, Tony was effectively corralled. Clint snickered and didn't bother to hide his reaction. A moment of silence fell and Clint realized everyone was looking at him. He'd missed something.

"Still dreaming, Sleeping Beauty?" Tony asked innocently. "Mind explaining those cryptic remarks now?"

"Some kind of magic or mutant power." Clint ignored Tony's jab. "Calls himself Gabriel, but also went by Michael and used Jarvis as a cover in the … what are we calling them? Dreams? Alternative worlds?. Anyway, he was hired by Wilson Fisk to keep up busy with a plan involving nuclear weapons. But Gabe is really working for Fisk's son who has daddy issues, big time."

"Wait a minute." Natasha objected. "Fisk? Kingpin? I thought his son was dead."

"There's dead and then there's dead. Jarvis?" Clint turned the discussion over to the A.I.

"Wilson Fisk had one son with his wife Victoria; Richard Fisk died at the age of 22 in a skiing accident in Switzerland, six years ago. Very few images of Richard exist; he was raised primarily in boarding schools in Europe and rarely visited the United States." A couple of grainy telephoto lens shots appeared on the screen of a young boy. "Using age progression, this is approximately what Richard would look like today." A face filled the screen.

They spoke at the same time.

"Damn," Tony said.

"Oh, shit," Clint exclaimed.

The Hulk growled from his spot near the wall.

"We know him," Steve offered. "Las Vegas. Robert. The butleri. Said he was ex-military. But he helped us out, saved Clint's life with that epi-pen."

"The butler did it?" Natasha asked, voice laced with irony. Interestingly, Steve went completely red-faced and dropped his eyes as if embarrassed; both Tony and Clint caught the reaction.

"Makes a strange sort of sense, if he's working against his father. He could undercut the whole operation, make sure the finger pointed daddy's way. I found suggested connections between Kingpin, H.Y.D.R.A. and the attack on FabMet. Could also explain why the data about the nannites was still there if he wanted us to find it. Jarvis, you have the data. Can you find the butler from the MGM?" Steve went back to giving information to forestall inevitable questions about his reaction, one of his favorite strategies for derailing conversations he didn't want to have.

"I dreamed about nannites," Phil said from his seat. "We were all in _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_; strange, though, since season four with Riley Finn is not my favorite."

"Okay, don't tell me," Tony held up a hand. "I was Buffy, right? 'Cause I'd so be Buffy."

"Oh, no, you're Willow," Clint argued. "I'd be a better Buffy. And I know who Phil would be."

"Down, Xander. No way I'd be …" Tony stopped and thought about it. "Okay. Willow was a bitching powerful witch after all."

"Now wait, maybe not," Clint rethought his position. "That would mean you dated Bruce – who is Oz, of course – and I'm not sure how I feel about that one."

"If it's any consolation, it didn't work out between us." Smug look on his face, Tony waved away Clint's objections. "Besides, you're Riley Finn, the erstwhile boyfriend/military type."

"I, too, do not see Tony as Buffy; she would be a great warrior." Thor grinned at them both; the man loved to stir the pot. "And I liked Finn the Fighter, a noble hero."

"If you must know Natasha was Buffy," Phil interjected in a voice he might use for squabbling children.

"And you were Giles," Clint smirked; a good bet since the watcher was Phil's favorite character. "Ripper fits you. But put Tony out of his misery and tell him he was Anya."

"Boys? Do I have to kick your asses to get back on track here?" Natasha seemed inordinately pleased to have been cast in the role of vampire slayer.

"Yes, Buffy." Clint winked at her. "So, Gabriel put us into dream worlds with enough wiggle room for us to figure out what was going on. Kingpin was plotting in my dream to take over Charleston but the vampires were really controlling him."

"Vampires?" Carol asked. "You a Twilight fan, Clint?" She was enjoying this as much as everyone else.

"Oh, please don't get him started on Victorian vampire novels," Natasha sighed. "He'll go on for hours then make you watch _Nosferatu_." Actually, she'd enjoyed that movie when they'd seen it together at a little theatre in Italy.

"Well, I was working on nuclear fusion and the Manhattan project; Steve had a diner. Clint and Thor were my bodyguards, Bruce was a college professor, and Natasha worked as a waitress." Tony said, very happy to share. "Steve's been holding back on his cooking skills if that food was any indication. Or I just hungry."

"I was an actor, making moving pictures about superheroes. Tony played the villain who threatened the destruction of cities to gain monetary payments." Thor glared at Tony as if he had actually done such a thing. "There was much technical language to learn about satellites and c.b.i.m.s"

"I.C.B.M.s," Phil gently corrected, already tapping away on his tablet, sending information on to SHIELD. "I'll send a warning to check the integrity of all the silos."

"These weapons are real? With such destruction? And you have many of them?" Thor asked, surprised. "I thought it only an exaggeration."

"Hey, that's humans for you. Why just simply destroy the world when we can blow ourselves to hell and back twenty times over?" Tony sat back in his chair. "Makes a good deterrent."

"At the expense of people's lives and health." Her eyes sharp and narrowed, Natasha shot back.

"Long story," Bruce said, intervening. "We're trying to deal with it."

"Hank? What about you?" Clint asked, driving the conversation back to the problem at hand. The argument about nuclear proliferation was an old one and for another day.

"I was on a British Navy ship in the 1800s, exploring islands. Steve was the captain; we discovered a new insect that turned out to be vitally important … don't ask me why, details were fuzzy … and then we suffered a surprise attack. Big sea battle with a very large pirate." Hank smiled at the memory; even though it sounded dangerous, he had obviously had fun.

"Wouldn't have pegged you as a Johnny Depp fan," Carol joked.

"More like Patrick O'Brien," Hank admitted. "You?"

"_The Princess Bride_," she laughed. "Only I was Westley. The Hulk was Fessik."

"Here for yo soul!" The Hulk boomed out with a strange accent and a happy cackle. He adored that movie, particularly the gentle giant of a man named Fessik.

"So who was your Buttercup?" Clint wiggled his eyebrows. He had a sneaking suspicion what man she would cast in the role of the beloved she needed to save; Carol bit her lower lip to keep a silly smile from her face.

"I'll never tell. But you were looking for a man with six fingers and the very large prince was planning to start a war between kingdoms." Carol thought about it. "Guess Humperdinck was Kingpin."

"The Kingpin connection explains Spiderman." Natasha gave one of her enigmatic shrugs. "He was in my dreams."

"That's it? Come on, Red, let's hear the gory details," Tony queried. Clint had to admit Tony didn't back down; he still hadn't learned to leave Natasha alone when she didn't want to talk. Her only response was a cold stare. "Fine. Steve?"

"Not much to add. Distraction. Cold fusion. Two different aliens working against each other." Steve went with a nonchalant tone, but a flush crept up his neck. It struck Clint again that the others didn't remember any of the dreams but their own, and he wondered about why he remembered them all, the details filtering into his brain. And, no, damn it, he had not been Riley Finn; there was nothing wrong with being Xander, the platonic best friend. Xander had ended up being one strong kick-ass character for someone without magic or superpowers.

"So, we're looking for a satellite connected to Wilson Fisk." Steve took charge. "We need to split our attention. Find out Kingpin's plan and stop it, locate Richard Fisk and see what his part is in all this. Coulson, get SHIELD on how Fisk would get access to launch codes along with the integrity of security at the sites. Tony, you and Hank find the satellite and figure out how to hack it. Carol, can you work with Richards and see what caused us to go out of phase?"

"And this Gabriel?" Reed Richards asked. "If we find him, he has a lot of questions to answer, like how the effects were localized to just a few floors of the tower. That took amazing precision and power."

"Floors? That's all?" Clint asked, sitting up in his chair.

"Yes. Just the living floors. Is that important?" Richards confirmed.

"That means he was here the whole time." Clint looked at the others. "Peter Parker. Spiderman. He had to be in the radius of the spell."

…

Peter stood in his bedroom of the small row house, stomach wrapped in knots. After waking up on the balcony of Stark Tower, he'd beat a hasty retreat when he saw the windows go transparent, the dream still vivid in his mind. It made no sense at all; okay, he could get that he was Harry Potter, the boy who lived, but Mary Jane Watson as Ginny Weasley? Must be the red hair. Gwen as Hermione and Harry as Ron worked, sort of, he guessed. Then there were the Avengers as teachers? His head hurt just thinking about it all.

All that was eclipsed by his biggest problem: explaining where he'd been to Aunt May. He'd swung by the big boards in Time Square with their blaring news headlines and caught the date and time. Four days. _Four days._ **Four** **days**. He was soooooooooo dead. _**Four days**__._ Aunt May had probably called the police and reported him missing. Maybe, if he thought really hard until she came home, he could come up with a plausible explanation. He was with Harry? "And you didn't call?" Working at the library? "It closes at night, Peter." Knocked unconscious on the way home? "Where were you? We should go to the emergency room!" Maybe the hospital? "Peter! My heart. Tell me the truth." He played the various possibilities in his head, pacing back and forth; nope, there was no way out of this one unless he went with incompetent stupidity. Yeah, he'd have to call Harry and get him to back up the story that Harry invited him to go away for the weekend and Peter forgot to call. And Harry didn't remind him. All of which Aunt May would never believe.

He heard the door open, his Aunt's weary sigh, the sound of her sinking down into the arm chair in the living room just below. Maybe the truth was the only way. Whatever he did, he had to go and let her know he was alright. She'd be so worried. Steeling himself, he clattered down the stairs, ready to pay the piper; just then, a knock sounded on the front door. Through the glass, he saw a man in a black field uniform, dark shades covering his eyes, leather gloved knuckles rapping again.

"Peter!" Aunt May sat up, emotions chasing across her worn face – joy, relief, anger, frustration. "Where have you …"

The rapping again, insistent. "Excuse me, ma'am," the man said, voice muffled through the door. "I need to speak to the guardian of one Peter Parker."

His Aunt was a woman made of stern stuff; drawing herself up out of the chair, she squared her shoulders, tossing a scorching glance at her nephew before settling her face into a neutral expression. "Hello. May I help you?" she said as she pulled the door open.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, ma'am, but my name is Clint Barton and I work for Stark Industries. I'm afraid we just learned that Mr. Parker neglected to complete the requisite paperwork, including your signature on the permission form for his recent four day training camp for intern." Barton smiled at May Parker, the lie flowing from his lips so easily that Peter was impressed. Clint Barton, who had been his flying professor and the coach of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, was an Avenger. What was an Avenger doing at his front door? With an explanation, no less?

"Peter?" That was Aunt May's 'answer me or else' voice.

"I'm so sorry, Aunt May. Really. I got, um, excited about the opportunity to work with, um, Mr. Stark. I told you all about it. Remember? That discussion about internships for the summer?" Hoo, boy, Peter hoped this one worked. "This was the one I really wanted."

"You never told me which one you were going to apply for, Peter. I assumed you hadn't done any of the paperwork." Her eyes narrowed, and she was right about that. Peter had forgotten after that series of battles with the Wrecking Crew.

"Actually, ma'am, if I might, I have the paperwork here with me." Barton handed a clipboard over. "Usually, a lapse like this would be grounds to expel a participant from the program, but, well, I'm sure you know just how gifted your nephew is. His abilities are far beyond kids his age, and Drs. Banner and Danvers are looking forward to having him in the lab, so we'd like to offer Peter a second chance. This afternoon if possible, assuming you agree, of course. Dr. Richards' experiment with satellite telemetry and radioactive half-life is scheduled in just an hour; he asked if Peter could be present, considering the topic of Peter's research paper in AP Physics." The look Barton turned on Peter was downright scary; he might have landing out of the frying pan and into the fire, as the old saying went.

"Please Aunt May? I know I'm grounded. For a month. Two. I won't complain. I'll take the garbage out twice a day and clean the basement, just like you want. Please?" Peter wasn't above begging. She was waivering, Peter could see. The compliments and respect of famous names like Tony Stark were working. At least partially.

"If it helps, I promise he'll be home this evening. In a Stark car. And I will personally make sure he calls you if the experiment runs later than expected." Barton smiled at Aunt May then glared at Peter.

"I suppose. If you promise me, Peter, to call." She flipped through the forms. "Let me look these over first." Heading back into the living room, she went in search of a pen to complete the forms.

"Got your suit, kid?" Barton asked, the first glint of humor in his eyes. "We've got a satellite to deal with and a fat man to make sing."

…..

The action was anti-climactic; it took longer to locate the satellite and get a bead on exactly what Fisk intended than it did for Tony to knock out the power and tow the butt ugly hunk of metal back down to a secure lab. Hell, more words were exchanged talking Thor out of simply smashing the thing than actually rounding up the scientists at mission control. Turns out, the plan was not to launch the missiles, but to introduce a virus that would disable their programming, starting a countdown where they sat. Quite ingenious; get into the system once, inject the code, and boom, boom, boom. All over the world too, as Fisk had Russian and French scientists on the payroll. Tony couldn't wait to tear into the thing apart and see exactly how it worked.

Everyone was upset that Fiske skated; there was no proof he was directly in charge of the scheme, and a conveniently timed death of the head scientist and a suicide note that bluntly stated his grand plan of world domination seemed to be the end of it. Kingpin took a hit in the criminal world for sloppy work and the ease with which he was foiled; it would be harder to repair his reputation than get away from the authorities. Of Richard Fiske, there was no trace. The mysterious Robert had disappeared, his fake history ending the day Steve left Las Vegas. All video was expertly wiped and even one-on-one interviews provided only the information that they already knew. Every bit of data pointed to Wilson Fisk being involved with H.Y.D.R.A., but nothing definitive, no hard evidence was found. Clint was frustrated; hell, everyone was. Wake up, raring to go, all the revelations and to end with just a handful of low-level computer geeks? Not satisfying at all. And the biggest problem of all was the absolute deafening silence on the Gabriel front. No one had ever heard of the joker, much less dealt with him.

Wandering out onto one of his favorite balconies for contemplation, Clint caught sight of Steve standing, looking out over the city, face drawn tight. Hank and Bruce, back after a severely bummed Hulk let the little guy take over, were already in the labs with Tony, mostly to watch and listen as Tony worked. That left Clint at sixes and sevens, with little to do but think. Seemed Steve was in the same boat.

"Not satisfying, is it?" Clint asked, stepping up beside Steve and resting his forearms on the railing. "I hate it when they get away."

"At least with Kingpin, we're making headway; he'll be less effective now. And we know about Richard, where we didn't before. We'll find him." Steve sighed, turning his troubled gaze to Clint. "It's the enigma of Gabriel that's got me worried the most. He turned us upside down and kept us tied up with a snap of his finger, Clint. That's power, more than Loki or Thor has. I'll admit to being a little leery; wonder what he could do if he wanted us to never wake up?"

"For what it's worth, I think he was trying to help us in a very strange, very twisted way." Clint had been rolling the conversation he had around in his mind. Some many hints and clues dropped that needed to be parsed and investigated. "He said we needed to wake up and see that something really big, really nasty was coming. The more I think about it, I'm coming to the conclusion that he isn't from here … like maybe an alternate dimension or another plane of existence. Talked about wanting to introduce me to someone who thinks he's dead, creative ways to die, and called Loki a 'poser.' When I asked what the hell he was, he told me that was the wrong direction."

"What, like he was from heaven? Some sort of mixed-up guardian angel?" Steve laughed.

"Gabriel is the name of one of the three Archangels mentioned in the Bible. The messenger of God; he's the one who told Mary she was pregnant." Clint shrugged, but it was bothering him. A lot.

"I remember angels and dreams in the Bible, but not anything like the one I had." There was the reaction again; Steve ducked his head to hide his eyes. Time to beard the lion and tell him, Clint thought.

"So, um, I realize everyone pretty much remembers their dream, but, well, I sort of remember all of them." They were crystal clear in his head – kissing Bruce at a concert, diving over a booth to save Tony, being a sailor on a British Navy ship and a stunt man on a movie set, feeling the intense rush of Bruce's bite, and Steve's hand on his hips as they watched Tony and Bruce.

"All of them?" Steve repeated, looking abashed. "Clint. I … I'm sorry, I didn't … it's just …"

God, but Steve was cute when he was struggling with that very direct moral compass. Clint almost wanted to let him go for a few minutes to enjoy the very attractive blush that crept up Steve's neck and into his cheeks. But that would be mean. "Steve. It's okay. It's not like it really happened. Everyone has those types of fantasies. Honest. Hell, I won't say I haven't entertained a few of those contortion type situations that make yoga flexibility invaluable. With you. There. I said it out loud, so we're even now?"

"Oh hell, I can't believe I even thought it much less acted on it. Even if it was an alternate reality." Steve fidgeted, unable to stand still. "What would Tony think?"

"Tony? Shit, Steve, Tony would suggest it if he suspected you'd agree." Yeah, Tony had a different set of boundaries when it came to sex; he respected his partner, though, and would understand if Steve was a monogamous type. Tony probably assumed Steve wouldn't be interested, so he'd never bring it up. "If you want, you should say something to Tony. He won't be upset."

"It's cheating." That bubbled out fast, a notion that showed Steve was still very much shaped by his upbringing. "Being with someone else instead of Tony."

"Yeah, if you go sticking it in other people without Tony's consent it is. But if he's present AND participating? It's not for everyone, I give you that, but lots of couples spice up their relationship by bringing others into the picture … for a one-time only appearance or even long term. Key is, the two of you decide together." The bemused expression on Steve's face made Clint want to smile, but he didn't.

"So, you and Bruce … share?" Steve asked curiously with maybe just a hint of interest. Oh, yeah, Clint knew that Tony had a bit of a thing for Bruce – the two had danced around the idea a bit, but Bruce had been more intent on pursuing Clint, and the Big Guy's preference had pretty much settled that. And Clint's ego didn't mind the thought that perfect Captain America thought of him that way. Bruce was the only one for him, but it was still flattering.

"Topic hasn't really come up yet. There's literally a gorilla in the room, and he's not real big on the whole sharing thing." Clint couldn't imagine having that discussion with the Hulk; they barely talked about sex as it was. "But I will say that if you decide to do it, Natasha might be a good person to ask first. You three got pretty loud if I recollect correctly." He said that last part with a grin, trying to get Steve to laugh about it.

"How would you know? I believe you were face down in some pillows right then." And just like that, Steve was back, giving as good as he got, coming to terms with the whole thing. "Oh, hell, I'm going to wait to tell Tony until just the right moment. When he's being a real pompous ass and I've got a comm link in his ear. Deterrent, right? Mutually assured destruction."

"Whip it out morsel by morsel and save the full on orgy for last. You'll have him going for months." Now Clint was laughing and admiring the feisty gleam in Steve's eyes at the thought of Tony's reaction.

"Only problem with your plan is that Natasha hates Tony. I can't imagine her agreeing." Steve sighed at that, as if he regretted the missed opportunity.

"No, no, she likes Stark. Honestly," Clint protested at Steve's look of disbelief. "She'd never have moved into the Tower if she didn't. If she doesn't like someone, you'd know. There was this one agent, real piece of work, homophobic little shit; he fancied himself some sort of coffee connoisseur. Natasha laced his one-of-a-kind expensive dry roast with all kinds of things; diuretics, marijuana, hot sauce. Once she even made his personalize espresso machine overheat and blow up …." Clint saw the change in Steve's face, the way the humor drained and his eyes widened, focused on a spot over Clint's shoulder. "Hey, Nat. You remember Wallace, right?"

"Indeed. Man was a waste of a human body. But I didn't blow up the machine; I take full responsibility for all the things in the coffee – it was ghost chili powder, by the way – but Maria yanked those electrical wires. Then arranged to get an industrial sized machine for everyone. Made damn fine espressos." Natasha stepped up to the railing and glanced over both of them and gave one of her rare smiles to Steve. "Clint's right. I don't hate Tony. He annoys the hell out of me, but the man's heart's in the right place. Color me surprised that he has one."

For her, that was a major admission, to share her feelings; only Clint and Phil were the recipients of that trust, but it looked like that list was expanding. Steve being Riley Finn should have been his first clue. Clint felt a fierce surge of love for his best friend; she was starting to open up to others.

"That's good to know," Steve smiled down at the redhead. "Best for the team, after all. Anyway, I'm going down to order some dinner, thinking about subs from Stage. You want some?"

"Not going to cook for us? I'd love a grilled mac and cheese sandwich. And your chicken pot pie looked really tasty. Too bad Phil doesn't remember to give us a review." Clint was only half-teasing.

"I do have a good pot pie recipe I picked up in France. I'll have to find one for the sandwich though. Maybe tomorrow, if you help. You're not half-bad a chief yourself," Steve agreed. "But for now, sandwiches and delivery."

"Order two Lion Kings for Bruce and I'll take a Russian Rueben." Clint realized he was hungry.

"Seared Tuna for me." Natasha laid a hand on Steve's arm as he turned to leave. "Steve, I don't know why, but I feel the need to say thank you." Rising up on her toes she brushed a kiss just on the corner of his mouth; his eyes widened and then darkened, his hand coming up to cup her chin and run his thumb along her jaw.

"You're welcome," he replied, a little nod of respect, and then he headed back in the building. "Twenty minutes or so, come on down to the lab to eat with us."

They fell into silence for a few moments, Clint watching the sun slowly sink below the horizon, comfortable to say nothing at all.

"So you remember everyone's?" was her opening foray. She cocked her head and looked at him, all seriousness now.

"You heard all of it, didn't you?" Of course she did. The only way Steve would notice her was if she wanted him to. "And may I say that being cast as Jane Bennett was interesting, to say the least."

"Hey, Tony was Lydia, and Bruce was your Mr. Bingley, so you can't complain."

One of Natasha's closely guarded secrets was her love affair with Jane Austen novels; the only thing she played even closer to the vest was the man she still held a torch for after all this time. Clint was probably the only person who knew the name of the mystery man; Phil only knew one existed. Her Mr. Darcy and the shadowy Angel were dreams she'd want no one else to share. He thought about that for a moment, the way his life had changed now that he had Bruce, real and here and in his bed and his life, and he wanted that so much for Natasha, someone to give her the love she deserved.

"So, Steve?" Her voice interrupted his reverie; he followed the conversational trail back to the topic.

"Steve. When he asks … and I think he will … you okay with that?"

"I could handle it," she answered. "Both of them."

Another silence fell. Natasha would get around to whatever it was she wanted to ask him in her own time. He suspected he knew what it was; after all, he was the one who had bared his soul to her in their dreams. For the longest time, he hadn't let himself think about Loki; if he didn't give it a voice, he could ignore it more easily. Bruce had gotten around his defenses by never straight out asking, just intuiting the truth; that was one of the things that Clint loved about the man, the way he was there for him without Clint feeling pressured to 'talk about it.' Bruce understood the way only those who had suffered could, and so did Natasha; for some reason, in three different dreams, Clint had felt the time was right to confirm her suspicions.

"Nat. It's not that I didn't want …" He started, but her fingers on his wrist stopped him.

"Don't. There's nothing to apologize for. You know I'm here if you need me." She smiled ruefully. "Heaven knows that talking isn't my first choice, ever. Just let me know if you want to go after the bastard. I'll be ready."

"You have to get in line behind a big green guy. Might not be much left afterwards." That Clint knew for certain; one word from him and Loki would be a smear on the sidewalk. "But thank you. And you know I'd do the same for you."

The broadest hint was all Clint could risk and all Natasha would allow. "I know," was her simple answer.

"Oh, and warn me so I can be ready to give Tony grief if you decide to go that direction," Clint grinned. "I can't wait."

…

"What are you reading?" Bruce stopped behind Clint and peered over his shoulder at the books that were open; Clint was scrolling through a website as he compared texts. Night had fallen, but no one seemed to want to go to sleep; Clint wasn't even tired, so he'd started researching possibilities. Looking over his shoulder, Bruce read off the titles. "_The Bible. American Gods. Native American Legends. Tricksters in Norse Mythology_. Okay. Where did this come from?"

"Something the Hulk said. Called Gabriel 'silly rabbit' as in the cereal commercial. He might be on the right page. Listen to this:

Many native traditions held clowns and tricksters as essential to any contact with the sacred. People could not pray until they had laughed, because laughter opens and frees from rigid preconception. Humans had to have tricksters within the most sacred ceremonies for fear that they forget the sacred comes through upset, reversal, surprise. The trickster in most native traditions is essential to creation, to birth.ii

"Upset, reversal, and surprise. Sounds about right." Clint flipped over another book held open to a specific page. "According to this, Gabriel is one of only three archangels mentioned by name in the Bible; supposedly he was the angel who destroyed Sodom at God's orders."

"And you think our guy is … what? A trickster or an angel?" Bruce eased his hands up Clint's arms, careful to telegraph his intentions as he rested his fingers on Clint's shoulders, the muscles there tight and tense. Gently, he stroked then began to massage, finding the connection points were bone met muscle and circling with the pad of his thumb, increasing pressure as Clint sighed and started to relax.

"Maybe he's both? Or just taking on those roles? I don't know, but it's the only clue we've got. He certainly enjoyed messing with all of us, and yet …" Clint trailed off with a little moan of pleasure when Bruce found a knot and worked it out. Fingers glided up the side of Clint's neck and pulled back down, harder strokes, pushing out the tension as they crossed the collar of the t-shirt he had on.

"And yet, he did some good along the way," Bruce finished the thought. "Gave us a first time together and opportunities to deal with our pasts. Almost as if he wanted us to work through it all."

"That was one of the things he told me, you know? To get my shit together and not let it get in the way." Clint huffed out a laugh and laid the book down; Bruce's hands felt good, soothing away the worry. "I told Nat. About Loki."

Bruce leaned over and dropped a kiss just behind Clint's ear. "And there's my opening to ask. All those things I saw, when I was in your head. How much of that was real?"

Sitting up, Clint spun the chair around, pulling away from Bruce's hands to stare at him. "You remember them?" He stood up; Bruce caught his hand and tugged him over to the couch, sitting both of them down for the conversation.

"All of it. From your long blonde bangs at 20 to that very nice fedora. We're going shopping to buy you a double breast suit soon." Bruce waited while Clint wrapped his head around the revelation. "You make a great Xander, by the way."

"Why us? Why do we remember it all and no one else? Tesseract energy? Gamma radiation?" Clint wondered out loud.

"Or a trickster who wanted us to," Bruce offered. There really wasn't any better answer than that, Clint thought. It fit with what Gabe had said to him. "Ummm, you and Phil? Not that it matters, mind you; I mean I know there were others before, for both of us. It's just that he's back now and ... well … on a scale of 1 to 10, how awkward should I feel?"

"A big zero." This was an easy question to answer. "I've never slept with Phil. I mean, yeah, he pretty much saved me from the self-destruction I was headed towards when he recruited me for SHIELD, so that part is all true, but Phil is straight. Really straight. And there's someone in his life. Not my story to tell, but it's not exactly a secret either. Ask Phil sometime."

"Ah, the woman in his dream, the one who was visiting him?" Bruce nodded. "Makes sense."

"Yeah, that's her." Clint thought of all the secrets he and Bruce had learned. "Natasha … I'll have to tell her you know."

"Well, I don't, not really. Just a name," Bruce admitted. "But I trust your judgment; let me know if you need me to go with you."

They sat, Bruce's fingers light on Clint's wrists. He wanted to let the subject drop, but he knew Bruce deserved explanations for what he'd seen. "It was memories, jumbled together, a mix of truth and lies. The water torture? When I was a merc, one of the team leaders rabbited and got us captured by this drug lord; he left his son in charge and the guy was a real piece of work. Killed five of us before we had a chance to escape. Look, I've done things, seen things. When you're fifteen and hungry, you make bad choices, and you don't know there are any other options. And, despite what you see in movies and TV, bad guys don't just lock you in a room and leave you there. SHIELD has extensive training and psych tests to make sure you can survive." He wanted to shrug it off like he always did, but Bruce didn't let him. Hands came up to cradle Clint's face, fingers splayed across his neck and into his hair, and he met Bruce's eyes, afraid to see the pity there. Instead, he found himself falling into those brown depths, emotional baggage fading away in the acceptance he saw there.

"You are an amazing man, Clint Barton. Anyone else would be a basket case and here you are, still a sarcastic sexy fucker." God, the smile Bruce was giving him made pockets of memories, icy cold spikes inside of him, melt completely away. "And I do mean sexy. You have no idea how it made me feel to see you with Steve, wiggling that very fine ass and making him groan."

The kiss wasn't aimed for his lips; Bruce instead found the pulse point in his neck and sucked lightly. A blindingly sharp spear of lust slammed into Clint.

"You looked pretty damn good yourself, doc. Felt good too when you held me down on the floor right there in front of everyone."

"Just making sure everyone knew who you belonged to." Bruce lifted his head and looked at Clint, fingers stroking over the soft cotton of his t-shirt. "The other guy was feeling pretty possessive. Yet another validation that he can be sedated through good sex."

"So … Tony?" Clint asked. Bruce's mouth quirked up slightly.

"So … Steve?" Bruce shot back. Clint scrunched up his nose then gave a little shrug.

"Tony doesn't know, but Natasha does. Steve was a little freaked out when I suggested they start with her." His hands wrapped around Bruce's waist, and he shifted so they were facing each other.

"Wonder if they'd let us watch." Eyes sparkling with mischief, Bruce dragged a thumb across Clint's bottom lip. "The other guy might go for that. Right now, I think he might be talked in playing vampire master and obedient slave, if you're up for it."

"I could be talked into it." Oh, yeah, Clint could do that; he slipped his hands under Bruce's shirt. "Next time, how about you be the clueless teaching assistant, and I'll be the student who'll do anything for an A in the class?"

"If I get to spread you across a desk, I'm in," Bruce laughed and leaned back in.

"Then bite me, big guy," he said with a laugh, catching the edge of his shirt and pulling it down, exposing more of his neck and shoulder as he bent his head.

Bruce froze, ran a finger over the skin. "How?"

"What are you …?" Clint felt with his own fingers; jumping up he went to the mirror in the bathroom, flipping on the light switch. Two very faint scars marred his shoulder, right above his carotid artery, small and round. "You don't think?" he asked, yanking his shirt over his head; a scar, indistinct gunshot that happened many years ago, , a second one, a distant slice of a knife, and yet another, shadow of a grazed bullet. Jeans came off, and he twisted until he could see the faded circles on his inner thigh.

"We should do complete workups, blood tests, metabolic panels, everything." Bruce seemed shell shocked. "If what happened in the dreams really affected us … I don't know what that would mean. Maybe nothing. Maybe something."

"We can test one thing right now." Clint wrapped an arm around Bruce's waist and reeled him in until he could reach his mouth; lips came together and Bruce's hands settled on Clint's back. They let the kiss deepen, mouths parting and tongues tangling as Clint stroked his hands under Bruce's shirt. The physical sensations were dominant; drag of callouses across smooth skin, wet heat of their mouths, brush of tongues on teeth, bump of hip bones, stirring of cocks. Then blood began to warm, slightest coil of tension in the gut, need rising. Behind that, a knot of worry, calculations running, possibilities unspooling, reply of desire amid the apprehension, emotions mingling – love, concern, pleasure, hope, fear. And even more distant, a rumble, hint of anger, uneasy, longing, childlike and large.

They were breathing hard when they broke apart. "Did you?" Clint asked.

"Yes," Bruce replied.

"What the fuck did Gabriel do to us?"

i See "Know When to Hold 'Em" for the full story

ii Byrd Gibbons. _Napalm and Silly Putty_. Quoted by comedian George Carlin.


	11. Carter, I can see my house from here!

NINE DAYS LATER

Steve paused, flush and deep inside Tony, t-shirt rumpled up under his armpits, jeans around his ankles, and he wondered again at how easily this man drove him to do things he'd never have imagined. Dragging back out, he hesitated and then drove back in; Tony arched up to meet him, hands holding on to the edge of the cool granite, his black tank gathered at his waist, cheek pressed along the smooth countertop. Sweating even in the air conditioning, Steve tightened his fingers, bruising with his strength as he bit down on his lip and enjoyed the tight clench of muscles that tried to hold him in as he pulled back then resisted his hard thrust forward. One cup of tea, that was all he'd come in the kitchen for, something to help him get to sleep while Tony was still in the lab; leaning forward, he shifted his stance and griped one hand in Tony's hair, tugging him up, making his back bow. Anyone could walk through the door; Steve should care, but he didn't.

"How in the hell do you do this to me?" With Tony's head yanked backwards, Steve could bend down and whisper in his ear just before he sank his teeth into the soft lobe and twisted. Tension coiled in his gut, and he knew he was getting close; he increased his thrusts, fast rhythm now matching the sound of their expelled breaths.

"You love it." Tony craned his head back and smirked, daring Steve with a glitter in his dark eyes.

"Fuck, Tony." He let Tony's head go, hauled him half off the breakfast bar. Wrapping an arm around Tony's hips, he circled Tony's cock, stroked it, then pumped hard, once, twice, and a third time. The dam broke and Steve strained forward, coming in a series of stutters that rocked them both as Tony groaned his own climax at the same time. Sliding a hand up the knobs of Tony's spine, he bent down and kissed the sweaty skin at the nape of Tony's neck. "You drive me crazy, damn it."

They separated; Steve removed the condom and tied it off, wrapping it in a paper towel to dispose of somewhere besides the communal area. Dressing quickly, he found the Clorox wipes and tossed the plastic holder to Tony to clean up the evidence, knowing he'd think about this next time he used one of the stools to eat breakfast, probably only a few hours away.

"Enjoying debauching you, Cap." Tony left his pants undone, grey briefs showing, and he trapped Steve between the sink and his body. "Always a pleasure to see you come undone. And a very nice break from work, if I do say so myself."

"What makes you think I'm not a hedonist already?" Steve leaned back when Tony leaned forward.

"I know you're not a damn virgin, but introducing you to new things ranks high on my to do list." Tony circled a hand around Steve's neck and stretched up to kiss him, a sweet, post-coital buss that was the only way Tony admitted he cared. Steve had come to realize that these moments were Tony's way of saying it without words; so far, Steve hadn't voiced his own feelings out loud, too unsure of the status of their relationship and knowing it was too soon for Tony to hear.

"Okay, who's always complaining about PDAs? In the kitchen no less." Clint wandered in, bumping past them to get two cups from the cabinet and a tin of tea. Scooping some Thai chai into strainers, he ran hot water from the red tap and sat them aside to steep. "Steve I expect, but you, Tony?"

There was a hint of laughter in Clint's teasing, and Steve took it good-naturedly. They'd fallen into an easy banter lately, more comfortable around each other since they talked on the roof; something about admitting things out loud made life seem less complicated. Tony eyed them both, not letting go of his hold on Steve.

"Someone want to clue me in here? You've both been so damn chummy since our little escapade," Tony complained; the man certainly hated being out-of-the-loop. That's what made having an ace up his sleeve so appealing to Steve, the expectation of Tony's reaction.

"_Stargate_." Steve said calmly and proceeded to dip his hand into the waistband of Tony's jeans, already hanging precariously off his hips. "I dreamed we were all members of SG-1."

"Really? That's great!" Tony's brain immediately jumped to filling in the blanks; Steve's hand slipped lower over the curve of Tony's ass. "You were Jack, of course. Let's see, I'd be Daniel? Nah, a humanities degree? Sam. Yeah, I'd be the smartass version of the genius physicist. Bruce could be Daniel and Thor T'ealc."

"You keep dreaming, Metal Head." Clint took the strainers out and cleaned up. "And what about me?"

"Oh, you're Jonas Quinn," Tony flashed a grin and stepped back from Steve, reaching around Clint for a mug for coffee, the whole reason he'd come up to the kitchen in the first place

"Sorry, Tony, but you only got one out of four." Letting go, Steve knew he'd held Tony as long as he could; keeping Tony Stark still was beyond any super solider serum or amount of patience. Like a hummingbird, he could hover only in small doses then he was off onto the next thought; that energy was the reason Tony was so damn successful.

"Which one did I get right?" When neither Steve nor Clint answered, he rubbed his hands together in glee. "Oh, ho, this is a game, is it? Yes …. Okay, there are four main characters and at least six ... no seven counting that pain Parker … and the others? Hmmm …. If we allow for permutations that include Gabriel … yeah, I can do this. Challenge accepted. But you have to tell me when I get one variable correct."

"Okay, but you can't do them one at a time; you have to give me the whole team and I'll validate which ones you have right," Steve sighed, pretending to acquiesce, but he didn't have much of a poker face so the edges of his lips curled up slightly. "You were Sam."

"Yes!" Tony pumped a fist and spun on his heel, his jeans barely hanging on his hip bones as he started to pace. "Let's start with Jack. Leader, smart ass, pretends to be dumber than he really is … Thor? Maybe, but Thor isn't …"

As Tony contemplated the possibilities, Clint leaned over to Steve, hand resting on the taller man's bicep. Fingertips trailed down Steve's arm, and Clint winked, knowing the action would incite Tony even more. "Keep me updated on the progress. Be sure to save the video and audio feed."

"… as I hate to admit it, Hawkguy over there might be the best fit for …" Tony stopped walking and talking, glaring a hole in Clint's back as he left the room, juggling the two mugs. "What the hell was that?"

"Clues, Tony. Clues," Clint shot back from the hallway.

"I really hate that he knows more than me," Tony groused. "And you? You're enjoying this way too much."

Steve just smiled.

…

Things had been tense the last few days; Bruce was wound tighter than a spring about the test results and Clint didn't see what the big fuss was all about. Problem was, Bruce spun out all the possibilities, focusing on the worst case scenarios; Clint played the odds too, running scenarios, making plans, but then there was nothing left to do but wait to see the direction events took. Scope the shot, be prepared for any eventuality, but sit quietly until the target came into sight.

And there was no road map for this new territory. Thank god they'd kept the situation quiet from the start; Bruce had wanted to test everyone, but Clint had talked him into starting on just the two of them with the argument that he was the only one who was really at risk. Hank had been slashed by a cutlass but aside from some bruises and red knuckles, Clint's gunshot wound and bites were the worst of the lot. No telling what SHIELD would do when they found out, and they had already agreed to keep parts of the results just between them – well, Tony and Carol would probably know. And Steve. And Natasha. Hell the whole team, but they'd try to keep it from going any further.

Clint wanted to make Bruce's favorite tea, the one he'd stashed in the cabinets for moments like these, as kind of a peace offering. He sat the full mugs down on the edge of the table, catching a glimpse of the screen; streaming data bunched and separated under Bruce's fingers, filling folders as he went. The way his brain worked never ceased to amaze Clint, how fast he could make sense of the foreign language; he always laughed when Clint said that out loud, reminding Clint how quickly he calculated vectors and the coefficient of wind drag before he shot, but it wasn't the same thing. Clint intuitively knew those things from the feel of the breeze on his arm to the layout of an alleyway; he didn't think about it, he just took the shot. Not that Clint wasn't smart - his skill was instinct born of intensive practice and natural ability. Bruce was education and knowledge and, well, math.

"Hey," Clint said softly, sliding the mug over. "Drink. If you're going to be up all night, you need some caffeine and sugar to make a go of it."

Bruce blinked, becoming aware of Clint. Smudges of black curved under his dazed eyes as he tried to focus. "What time is it?"

"Oh my god 2:47 fucking a.m." He pressed Bruce's hands around the warm mug. "Everyone is sleeping except for Cap and Tony; I just wandered in on the aftermath of some kitchen sex, I think."

"I got the results of Carol's first batch of tests," Bruce mumbled, gesturing absently at the screen. He was clearly running on empty, having insisted on broadening the data pool as soon as possible. "She doesn't have the low level of sex pollen compound, but she wasn't exposed in the alternate. Nothing else, so I need to wait on Tony and Steve's …" he ran out of steam and ground to a halt, just sitting on his stool, staring at the display.

"You need sleep." Clint's fingers gently tugged Bruce's face towards him. "Come to bed. There's nothing you can do like this."

Bruce's voice grew stronger and he shook his head, pushing away Clint's hand. "I need to run the metabolism comparison again and take the pollen into account. Hormone levels might account for the discrepancies."

"Bruce." Clint tried to get through to him. "It's not your fault."

"No!" Pushing back on the edge of the table, Bruce skidded his stool on the floor, standing up. Anger sparked in his eyes, but he kept his voice low as he spoke. "Damn it, Clint, this isn't something you can ignore or laugh off. You've got elevated levels of gamma radiation at the cellular level. Do you understand the implications of that? Right now, there may be no changes, but long term? Who the hell knows what I've done to you?"

"You said it yourself - there shouldn't have been any effects. A couple drops of blood wouldn't make any difference." Clint fell right back into the same argument. "You saved my life and I distinctly remember begging you to do it. So if it's anyone's fault, it's mine."

"I should have known. Hell, I did; I said it was a disease of the blood and I knew that I was changing you." Bruce countered.

"Vampirism, Bruce. You were talking about making me a vampire. It wasn't real. You couldn't have known." God, but Clint didn't want to do this again, this wasn't why he came down here. Watching Bruce's hands clench by his sides, Clint drew in a shaky breath and reined in his temper. "Shit. I don't want to fight about this."

"Neither do I." As fast as it came, the energy drained out of Bruce, and he collapsed back onto his stool.

Clint rested his hands on Bruce's knees and leaned down. "Come upstairs. Let's talk. Really talk."

"I need to …" Bruce started to protest, but let the words fade. "I'm overthinking this, aren't I? And you're the calm, accepting one. I think we've got our roles mixed up."

"Transference? Can I get a bit of that miracle metabolism if we're sharing traits now?" Clint tried to lighten the mood. "I can hear you, doc, all the worry and angst. Guess the jig is up. You were never that calm under the surface."

"Pretty good at pretending. I'm being an about ass," Bruce managed a small smile.

"Yeah, but a mighty fine ass it is, and, so happens, I'm an ass man, so that works out well, doesn't it?" The lightest of kisses and Clint pulled back. "We'll get through this."

Bruce ran his hand up Clint's chest and curled his fingers around his neck. "Together," he agreed.

"I meant what I said, doc. Whatever happens, this is not a curse." He wasn't sure how to say what he needed to; hell, he wasn't used to sharing at all. Natasha was easier to deal with than moments like these. "You know this is the longest I've even been with one person? Wasn't sure I was capable of anything over a couple months to be honest. And I sure as hell don't know about tomorrow or next year or ten years from now, but when I do let myself think about it, you're in the picture. A little greyer around the temples, maybe, but you."

"What exactly are you saying?" Bruce's face had lost the tension, stress lines softening as he gazed into Clint's blue-green eyes.

"Bruce Banner, will you go steady with me?"

A laugh exploded from Bruce and Clint joined in. "Steady? Wow. Want me to wear your pin and letter jacket too?"

"Laughing at my heartfelt declaration? I'm hurt!" Clint feigned outrage. "The Big Guy's a sucker for that kind of sappy stuff, and you know it."

"He's jumping for joy. But you know that don't you?"

He did; the Hulk was a kid at heart and the old-fashioned notion suited him just fine. "In Vegas, when you got so jealous about Steve, I told you I was committed to this relationship and I meant it."

"I sort of figured that out when you decided to become a vampire to spend eternity with me." Bruce's stroked his fingers over the nape of Clint's neck. "I love you too, by the way."

"Now, how about we go upstairs and you get some rest, hit this fresh tomorrow?" He bent to whisper in Bruce's ear, lips brushing along the curl of skin. "I might be talked into tossing the pillows on the floor and letting T'ealc hold me down and fuck me nice and slow."

"Let me save the data. I'll be right behind you."

"Behind me. Good one, doc."

…..

"_I'd love to have seen father's face when the satellite disappeared," Richard Fisk was gloating, kicking back in the hot tub in Vale, the cold weather not bothering him or the two naked women clinging to his sides. "You did well, Gabriel. Your payment had been wired. I'm looking forward to the next time."_

_With a snap, Gabe was out of there; he couldn't help but nudge the Jetstream so that low pressure would collide with the high parked over the middle of the United States, sending a good snowstorm the little shit's way. That brought a grin to Gabe's face as he thought about all the ways he'd take care of Richard when the time came; boy didn't know who he was messing with, and arrogant little pricks like that always got their comeuppance … when Gabe was around, anyway._

_He stopped at Dylan's Candy Bar to refill the sweet supply and then dropped into Stark Tower just after the sun rose over Manhattan to see the progress there, engaging his cloaking device (okay, just staying out of sight, but an invisibility cloak sounded cooler). Tony was busy in his lab, various components of the satellite pulled apart and programming code running across the screen, caught in the minutiae of how, the details weighing him down. Steve was in the gym, working out like a good little soldier, brain still flooded with endorphins from an early morning wake up blow job; man almost had angel-like stamina. Hank and Carol were sipping steaming cups of coffee, oblivious to the bigger picture, half-asleep over their breakfasts, unknowing that just hours ago Steve and Tony had been in that very same spot. Gabe chuckled at that one; say what he would about the slow-on-the-uptake Avengers, but when it came to sex, they were way out in front of the pack. Thor was gone, probably back to Asgard; what fun that had been to watch the godling try to act his way out of a paper bag. Sometimes Gabe even amazed himself with the outcome of his little magics. Peter … he cast about and found the teen fast asleep in his bed at home, gangly limbs sprawled across a set of Star Wars sheets. The redhead was more difficult; every time he tried to eavesdrop the least bit, she would turn and stare at him as if she could pinpoint exactly where he was. Creepier than that chick in The Ring. And more deadly, so he did a flyby, catching her in mid-sunrise salutation pose before he winged away quickly. His last stop was Bruce and Clint, wrapped around each other in an exhausted pile, covers tossed off of their bodies. Geez, these two loved being naked. The bond between them glowed faintly, golden hues of the connection so different than the green veins that pulsed along Bruce's skin, the Hulk's presence visible to Gabriel's sight. The tiniest of lines traced out from Clint's neck and thigh, a violet color like orchids, faint but detectible. And woven into the green that raced through Bruce Banner was random chaotic shots of yellow, occasional flashes of a new element._

"_Sorry, boys, time table's been moved up a bit. I'd say it's not going to hurt, but I'd be lying. It's going to hurt a lot." For one second, Gabe thought of the others – brothers and lovers and friends and teams – in their own worlds, the infinite permutations that existed so close to one another; all of them filled to the brim with such amazing diversity, and so many opportunities for fun, separated only by delicate membranes, each its own little bubble. Veils between universes that parted easily for Gabriel and held fast against all others were thinning under the onslaught, a constant barrage from something or someone desperate to get in. It was only a matter of time, Gabe knew, and someone had to be ready to stand up and fight. Might kill them, getting them ready, but without it, they were dead anyway._

_With one last salute, he snapped his fingers and stepped out into the parking lot of the Bait-n-Tackle Motel in the middle of Bumfuck, nowhere, USA, in another universe. "Only the best for you, buckos," he muttered as he faded into the woodwork, not visible to human eyes; as the people walked past, unaware of his presence, Gabriel, archangel, messenger of the Lord, sometimes trickster, all times pain-in-the-ass, unwrapped a tootsie roll and popped it in his mouth, balling up the wrapper and making the three point shot into the garbage can._

…..

Author's note:

This story is the beginning of a new series I'm calling "The Broken Blade." Next up, two stories that focus on threats from the past; first "Not all who wander," told from Bruce's POV and bringing General Ross back into the picture, plus those yellow flashes in the Big Guy's green world. Then "From the ashes," when ghosts from Clint's mercenary days force him to make some hard choices; there will be gamma signatures, and maybe, just maybe, one of those dreams the Tesseract showed him back in "It Takes Two." Along the way, changes are happening not only to Bruce and Clint but to the whole team. Richard Fisk, Loki, A.I.M., H.Y.D.R.A, the Tesseract … they're just the start of the Avengers' problems.


End file.
